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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963774">Facing the Mountain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperKatla/pseuds/PaperKatla'>PaperKatla</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood and Violence, Death Marches, Familial Bonds, Found Families, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Snow and Ice, We Die Like Men, Whump, matriarchs, snow planets, space genocide, space racism, that probably counts right?, the Doctor being typically emotionally distant, the author isn't British but she had an Australian granddad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 13:14:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,786</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963774</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperKatla/pseuds/PaperKatla</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a quick visit to the Festival of the Holy Mountain goes south, the fam find themselves separated from each other on the wintery planet of Hollum. </p>
<p>Trapped with the exiled natives of Hollum, Graham and the Doctor find themselves at the mercy of the elements and their human captors. In town, Yaz and Ryan scramble to make a plan and rescue their friends before it's too late.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thirteenth Doctor &amp; Graham O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor &amp; Original Character(s), Thirteenth Doctor &amp; Yasmin Khan &amp; Graham O'Brien &amp; Ryan Sinclair, Yasmin Khan &amp; Ryan Sinclair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Day One </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fizzing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That was the word. The Doctor was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fizzing </span>
  </em>
  <span>with eagerness. This regeneration was like that, she’d found. Always abuzz, always dizzy with exhilaration, passion, delight—like everything was new and exciting. Like she wasn’t too-many-thousands of years old to count. Like the weight of over a dozen lifetimes wasn’t pressing down on her, admittedly, much smaller shoulders until her thrifted chunky boots seemed to sink into the ground. Like she didn’t wake up, uncertain of when she fell asleep, spitting up phantom chunks of ash and cemetery soil. Nope, that was gone—she was a new man! A new woman, even! And she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fizzing</span>
  </em>
  <span>! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a good day, she decided. The pink sun of Hollum hung low in the sky, guiding her and “the fam” east towards the village she was certain was just over the next hill. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been saying that for half the day!” Ryan called, stumbling again in the deep snowpack. He was squinting up at her and the blinding white snow that surrounded their little hiking party. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d had sunglasses when they’d started out, hadn’t he? Or had he? She knew she’d thought about thinking about telling them to bring sunglasses, but had she mentioned it? She’d had the thought about digging out the old snow goggles she had stored away somewhere in some cupboard, she knew that. A very nice Inuit man had gifted them to her that time she’d wandered off from the HMS </span>
  <em>
    <span>Terror. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doctor, are we lost?” Yaz asked, taking big, deep steps to catch up with her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course not!” She snapped at her lapels, stood a little straighter, in the way she expected said </span>
  <em>
    <span>I absolutely know how to navigate. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“It’s just a bit farther than I remembered.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The four of them—the Doctor and her little fam—had been marching through the snow for a good few hours, and she knew they must be tired. She’d been trudging ahead of them, </span>
  <em>
    <span>post-holing</span>
  </em>
  <span>—that is, taking a step only to sink up to her thighs in snow—trying to use her still new-ish, slim body to cut a trail for the rest to follow. Wet snow slipped into her boots, soaking her socks. The fam followed her, bundled up in winter coats and caps with the yarn baubles sewn on top like party hats, moaning about the cold. She didn’t mind, though. It was exciting to be marching across the little ice planet of Hollum, leading her friends single-file like a kindergarten chain, towards a new little adventure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like she said, fizzing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’ll be worth it.” she told them as Ryan and Graham stopped behind Yaz. They looked skeptical. “I promise! Think of it: The Festival of the Mountain!” She waved her hands like a magician. No one applauded. “Really, guys, it’s great! They’ve got dancing and games and a little street fair! And, at the end of the festival, the Hollumim high priestess and her eight novices complete the Ritual of the Holy Mountain. It’s amazing! I’ve gone five times.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind her, Ryan toppled over, landing hard on his side. Yaz bent to help him up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham nodded. “Right, that’s great and all, Doc, but you said we were going to Bora Bora. And this—” He gestured to the rolling, snow-covered hills the four of them were marching down, the rocky glacial plains beyond, and, near the horizon, the spiny, pinkish peak of the Holy Mountain. “—</span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> ain’t Bora Bora.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Graham,” she replied, dismissing him with the little wave of her hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She huffed, stomping forward in the snow. She was definitely not lost. They were south of the Holy Mountain, which had to mean that the village was to the east. Taking a big step forward, she felt her boot stay put, her body still traveling intentionally forward. Her wet sock slipped out of the boot as she fell face first into the thigh-deep snow. Suddenly, she missed her older regenerations. They might not have been so fizzy, but at least they were tall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slipping ahead of Yaz and Ryan, Graham plucked her boot from the snow, holding it out to her. She snatched it from his hand. “You wouldn’t be having this trouble in Bora Bora,” he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re going to the Festival of the Mountain, Graham,” she said, tugging the boot over her soggy sock. It was harder than when she’d pulled them on that morning in the hallway—soggy socks, it turned out, got all twisty around the heel and wanted to travel down to visit your toes when you were only trying to keep your ankles toasty. “I’m not about to let a little bit of a snow stop me!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She ignored Graham’s offered hand, pushing herself up and marching awkwardly forward. He snorted out a short laugh, shaking his head and watching her with a paternal sort of fondness. It might have been sweet if it wasn’t also completely annoying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just you wait,” she called over her shoulder, marching up the next hill with every ounce of false confidence she possessed. “I’m not lost. In fact, I bet the village is right over this next hi—” She stopped, small frame silhouetted by the pink haze of the setting sun. She saw the breath leave her lungs in a cloudy puff of air, felt her arms drop to her sides, her shoulders sink as she stared down at the Hollumim village. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was no sound. No singing, no dancing, no street fair, only the eerie whistle of the wind singing down the telephone-type wires. The street lights were just beginning to flicker on, solar lights glowing red and blending in with the setting sun. The Hollumim’s dug-out style homes lined the street, blending into the rolling hills that surrounded the tiny village. The front doors were wide open, windows smashed. Broken rose-colored glass lay scattered in the street, glinting in the sun. In the street, carts were turned over, scattering bright colored clothing and small personal objects—a shoe, pink metal cutlery, paperback books, a painted idol, well-loved children’s toys—across the ice and snow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor startled. She hadn’t heard the fam walk up the hill behind her. She was suddenly aware of the chill in the air, the prickly sensation of her cold toes, the icy feeling in her lungs. Without bothering to reply, she began her careful descent of the hill to the village. What happened here? She may not have had all the details, but you didn’t live for a thousand-plus-maybe-more years by being a </span>
  <em>
    <span>total </span>
  </em>
  <span>idiot. It was obvious what had happened: “Nothing good.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The little crystal of her beloved sonic, welded and wired into its spoon-shaped case, glowed a soft gold as she held it in front of her, stepping cautiously into the first Hollumim house. Glass crunched underfoot, mixing with the snow that had blown in through the open door. “Yaz and Ryan, check the bedrooms. Graham, you head downstairs,” she ordered. She was whispering. She wasn’t sure why she was whispering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning away, she headed in the opposite direction of Yaz and Ryan. Paperwork and books were scattered across the living room floor as she moved forward, illuminating each little corner and cupboards. Tins and drawers were turned upside down in the kitchen, spilling cutlery and dried goods across the floor. In the center of the table, a cake topped with some unidentifiable dried fruit sat untouched. Except, no—not untouched. She leaned in, squinting at the the pinkish-purplish frosting. A fingerprint, like someone had licked the frosting. She stepped back and something crinkled under her soggy boots. It was a child’s drawing of a happy family in front of the Holy Mountain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doctor!” Yaz’s voice, sharp and eager. No, not eager—excited? Agitated. Definitely agitated. She and Ryan came stumbling into the kitchen, pausing to take into the chaos only a moment. “We found this!” Yaz said, holding up a crumpled piece of brownish paper. It was torn in one corner, but still legible. Big, mean, black letters were stamped across the top. </span>
</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <span>NOTICE TO ALL</span>
    <span></span>
      <br/>
    
    <span>Roser Persons</span>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
    <span>or Persons of Roser Racial Origin</span>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
    <span>   Living in the following areas: </span>
  </p>
  <p><span>All land known as the provinces of Casozu, Sinowo, and Ibosho, </span> <span>lying generally east of the north-south border of the the Bedoso </span> <span>province and the Great Frozen Lake to the Eastern Desert in Ibosho</span> <span> province, and generally south of the east-west border of the Iwoosy </span> <span>province and the Northern Terminus of the Pass of the Holy Mountain </span> <span>to the Southern Wilderness, in the blessed land of Hollum.  </span></p>
  <p><span>All Roser Persons, and those of Roser Racial Origin, or with two or more Roser</span> <span>immediate blood relatives, will be evacuated from the above areas, beginning </span> <span>mid-day, on the 14th day of the 14th month of the season. </span></p>
  <p>
    <span>Evacuation from the above areas is mandatory under the order of the Leader Laigh for the safety of Hollumim citizens. </span>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p>
  <span>An icy wind whistled through the house, sending the creepy-crawlies skittering down her spine. The Doctor read the notice again, and then a third time. She tried to call up a map of Hollum in her mind, imagine what wide borders this notice was drawing, tried to sink her creaky, old time sense into the ground around her, to get an idea of </span>
  <em>
    <span>when </span>
  </em>
  <span>she was. She licked the paper, lapped at the air, sunk down to sniff at the snow dusting the floor. Yaz and Ryan stood next to her, waiting with almost bored expressions—they’d been with her long enough that her odd behaviors were old hat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s it mean?” Ryan prompted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what’s a Roser?” asked Yaz. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a very nasty word!” the Doctor said. Giving the paper a final lick, she crumpled it with all the rage she could manage and hurled it across the room. “A very rude, nasty word for the native Hollumim.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, it’s, like, space racist?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded. “Exactly! It’s space racist! And I am very annoyed right now because my senses are all confused. I don’t recognize this period in Hollumim history at all. The air’s all wrong. And don’t get me started about the ground around here—all old and being difficult!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a huge, put-upon huff, she snatched up the balled-up notice she’d thrown and shoved it deep into her coat pocket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan looked at Yaz, who stepped forward, putting a gentle hand on her arm. “Okay, so it’s racist. But maybe it’s not all bad,” she soothed. Ignoring the Doctor’s incredulous look, she optimistically went on. “Maybe they really did get evacuated for their safety. That could happen!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doc!” Graham’s voice echoed up the stairs towards them. “You better come have a look at this!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They half-tumbled down the stairs, their footsteps thunderously loud in the empty home. Following Graham’s voice, they found him in a dimly lit corner of the underground floor. The Doctor could tell by his shoulders that something wasn’t right. For one, he was too stiff, too focused, and when they stepped up behind him, he didn’t turn around—he stayed, frozen in the doorway of a small, cozy office. “What is it?” the Doctor whispered, stretching to see over his shoulder. Silently, he pointed into the room, down at the body of a middle-aged woman lying face-down on the woven carpet. She was humanoid in shape, but pinker and with high, boney cheekbones and black eyes that stared sightlessly in front of her. Blood pooled underneath her, soaking her clothing, and splattering the painted idol in front of her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They shot her in the back,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She was praying,” Yaz noted, eyes locked on the idol. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor stiffened. The fizzing was gone, replaced by a bubbling anger and disgust that hissed and spat like a boiling kettle. For a brief moment, she imagined herself as the Hollumim woman, kneeling before her deity, imagined the crack of the gun. It was too much. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why would you shoot someone you’re trying to evacuate?” Ryan asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent question, Ryan,” the Doctor replied, seizing on the little mystery and yanking her thoughts away from the dead woman’s last moments. “The right question.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gun fired outside with a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>bang!</span>
  </em>
  <span> A child screamed. The Doctor discovered she was running back up the stairs before she had time to think, racing towards the sound of the gunfire. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If it’s not one thing, it’s another,</span>
  </em>
  <span> she thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oi!” she yelled, skidding on the snow as she rushed into the street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A small cluster of pale, human soldiers, bedecked in dark blue uniforms and flat caps were wrestling with a Hollumim mother and child. The small, pink girl was shouting an impressive variety of curses at them, twisting in the grip, kicking at their legs. The mother elbowed one guard, reaching for her daughter. “Stop, she’s a child! Don’t hurt her!” The slap from the guard was a loud crack down the empty street. The mother hit the ground, hard, but scrambled quickly to her knees, spitting out blood. “A curse on you!” she snapped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A curse on your mother!” shouted the little girl, following her mother’s lead. She was panting, hanging  limp in her captor’s grip, even as she beat her fist against his arm. “A curse on your daughters! A curse on your caverns, earthly and feminine! They will be dry and cold!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up!” said the guard, snapping his gun towards the mother. Even over her panting breaths the Doctor could hear him cock the rifle. “Be still!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oi! Stop!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guards froze. “Ma’am, you shouldn’t be here. Only provincial guard are allowed in Roser zones until the completion of evacuation,” said the one holding the little girl in a tight grip. He looked young, long nose, curly hair. His rifle was still over his shoulder, untouched. She squinted at him, trying to size him up—young and eager to prove his role, or would he be empathetic, thoughtful? Humans were so hard to gauge sometimes—the capacity for goodness, but not always the desire. The ability to be cruel, to seek safety in even the most abominable of groups, just because they were frightened of being on the outside. What was that saying? Oh, yes! They were like a box of chocolates. You could never quite be sure which kind you were going to get. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She swaggered up to him, hands in pockets, shoulders back. “You evacuate people with guns, now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Evacuation is mandatory.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not really an evacuation, then, is it?” She knelt next to the mother, politely ignoring the way the woman flinched away from her touch. “It’s all right. What’s your name? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anchyo im Mihealo.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice to meet you, Anchyo. I’m the Doctor. I’m here to help.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What can a human do?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor smiled gently. “Very little, I imagine. Lucky for you, I’m not human.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Suddenly, the guards were snapping their rifles towards her and ordering her to </span>
  <em>
    <span>back away, back away!</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hands up! get down!</span>
  </em>
  <span> She wanted to tell him that they ought to pick one order at the time, but she stood up, hands in the air, and stared them down instead. The mother and child were looking at her like she’d grown another head, while the guards looked confused, suspicious. Behind her, she could hear the fam racing down the street, shouting her name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Calmly, she stepped forward. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said. “I’m going to put my hands down, and you're going to let me, Anchyo, and her daughter go. Afterwards, I will make a call to the Shadow Proclamation and let them sort you lot out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another guard, tall and grey at the temples with a big mustache, barked out a laugh. “This is a closed planet. The only law here is our own.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a moment, the world slowed down. The Doctor felt the shining hum of her fam behind her, heard their panicked breaths as they took in all the guns, the blood in the snow. She could hear the icy wind whistling down the street, through the empty houses. She felt the frantic patter of her hearts and the heavy sound of the breath in her lungs. And she felt the ancient rage bubble up inside her chest again. Here was the first rolling cloud of the Oncoming Storm. “It’s closed now, but I can change that,” she challenged. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tall guard snorted. “Not likely.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The butt of his rifle smashing into her face was sudden and unexpected. She hit the snow, vision darkening, the muffled sound of the fam shouting fading in her ears. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Day Two</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor woke up lying flat on her back in a small prison cell. The mother, Anchyo im Mihealo, knelt over her, stroking her hair and humming softly. Her face was tacky with blood, and she could feel the tug of her hair pulling away from it each time Anchyo ran her fingers over her head. Even so, it felt nice. No one had stroked her hair in a very long time. Her head throbbed, and she could hear her breath whistle through her nose strangely—definitely broken. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be still,” said Anchyo. “Breathe evenly. He hit you hard.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” she said. She sounded congested. “My face remembers.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sat up, ignoring Anchyo’s protests. Tentatively prodding her face, she discovered a black eye along with the broken nose she savagely yanked back into place. “Oh, bad idea! Bad idea! Don’t ever let me do that again!” she said, hissing through the pain. She stumbled to her feet, clutching at the wall for support as she began to hobble the perimeter of the cell. It was small, with one bed currently occupied by Anchyo’s daughter, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>public toilet, and a little window reinforced with wire and covered in thick bars.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are my friends?” she demanded. “What have they done with my friends?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anchyo snorted. “The humans are fine. The guards would not hurt their own kind.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, it really isn’t an evacuation.” She pushed off the wall. Her knees felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>wibbly</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What evacuation begins with the murder of our priestesses and our wise people?” Anchyo replied, reaching out a hand to steady her. “Did they not have legs to walk and spirit to live?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor felt her hearts sink into her stomach. She looked down at the pink hand resting on her arm, holding her up, and then over at the little girl, her dark hair springing loose from its braids. She had been so excited for the Festival of the Mountain, to experience it again, in a brand new body, to see Hollum with new eyes. She hadn’t told the fam, but she was eager to experience a female-led ritual as a female, to experience that sisterhood that Yaz sometimes talked about. She had been giddy, but now she felt sick. Violence and war seemed to follow her, swirl around her. She had sought sisterhood and found segregation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry, Anchyo,” she said. “This shouldn’t be happening to you. But, I’m here to help. We’re going to stop it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Even with the Goddess and the Mountain behind us, we still suffer,” Anchyo replied. “What can one woman do?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This, for example!” she crowed, shoving her hand elbow-deep into her coat pocket, reaching for the sonic screwdriver. But her hand met empty air and extensive amounts of cloth. Frantically, she dug into the other pocket. Again, there was nothing. “Ugh! My sonic! They’ve taken my sonic! Look—empty pockets!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doctor!” It was Ryan’s voice, echoing down the corridor outside the cell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A loud buzzer sounded and a pink metal door swung open. The fam tumbled into the room, an eager mass of arms and legs, and rushed towards the cell, calling her name. They shoved their arms through the gaps in the bars as she stumbled forward. She wasn’t much of a hugger this regeneration, but she found herself stumbling forward, reaching back towards her fam. Her vision dilated in and out and she leaned unsteadily against the bars, allowing the fam to grab hold of her hands. Their grip was tight, their hands warmer than her own. They looked flushed and panicked, babbling a mile a minute about the village, the guards, her arrest, their arrest, Graham punching someone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You did </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham leaned forward, tightening his warm grip on her hands. She wriggled, suddenly uncomfortable with the intimacy of their touch, a loud klaxon somewhere in the back of her fuzzy brain shouted </span>
  <em>
    <span>alert! alert! </span>
  </em>
  <span>This touch was too much, this love for them too real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They wouldn’t let us go with you, Doc,” he said breathlessly. “They were just throwing you in some cart they pulled ‘round. Said that us humans shouldn’t be associating with you non-humans, if we knew what was good for us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz shouldered her way forward, adding, “Then the guard called you some rude names!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham nodded. “Right!And I may not have understood all of them, but I wasn’t having that sorta talk, and we needed to go with you, see? So, I decked him.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Doctor, your face!” Yaz said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor stepped back, jerking away from Yaz’s fingers as she reached out to touch her cheek. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” she lied. “You should see the other guy.” She smiled what she hoped was an encouraging smile, wincing at the sharp stab of pain from her recently-broken nose. Judging by the grimaces the fam returned, she didn’t quite stick the landing for “encouraging”. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We did,” Ryan replied. “That’s who Granddad punched.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham leaned in closer. “Look, Doc, can’t you use that little screwdriver of yours and bust outta here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shook her head. “It’s gone. They must’ve confiscated it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The young guard who had been at the door stepped forward. It was the one from the village—young and curly haired and watching their interactions with a look on his face she couldn’t quite place. His mouth was twisted in a strange expression. “It’s time to say your goodbyes,” he announced loudly. “Evacuation begins in one hour, and we have to take you three to the rest of the...refugees.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor reeled back, stumbling over her own feet. “Us </span>
  <em>
    <span>three</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We already told ya—she ain’t from here! You can’t send her away,” Ryan snapped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard shook his head. “All non-human citizens are to be evacuated for the safety of the public.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But we’re not citizens!” Yaz argued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I have my orders.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fam turned back to her, looking more pale and panicked than ever before. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They’re a good lot,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Doctor thought. Loyal and growing in cleverness and confidence and compassion with every little trip, every disaster they averted together. Now, though, they were looking at her for a plan, a scrap of an idea that she was supposed to miraculously pull from her fuzzy, concussed brain. The Doctor looked back over her shoulder. Anchyo was still hovering, her hands held out, ready to catch her if she stumbled, while, behind her, her daughter was waking up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Stricken, she looked back at her fam and watched their faces fall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard pushed forward, another three filing in behind him as he unlocked the cell. Hands latched onto her arms, dragging her forward as she dug her heels into the cold, cement floor. The Doctor looked up at a tall, mustachioed guard, his bruised face twisted into a snarl. Time seemed to slow for a moment as she tried twisting away from him. She was still concussed, though, her body still healing. And—if she was being honest—this body was smaller than most of the others, slimmer and lighter, good for wriggling into places, but bad for escaping the, frankly, way-too-tight grip of the enemy. Time sped back up in a rush of sound and furious movement. The cell was in chaos. Anchyo’s daughter was screaming, the fam was yelling, and the guards all shouted orders louder and louder over the din. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We have to go with her!” Yaz shouted, pushing herself up against the tall guard holding the Doctor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not possible,” he said. His grip got tighter, forcing a short sound of protest from the Doctor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t separate us!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have my orders, miss.” He dragged the Doctor forward, out of the cell, into the caged area that faced a small back corridor. She squirmed in his grip. Grunting with annoyance, he grabbed her around the middle, his thick arms wrapped around her belly and lifted her off her feet, ignoring her wild protests. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan stumbled behind the other guards who were dragging Anchyo and her daughter out of the cell, trying to force his way through the mass of flailing arms to the front of the group. “Where the Doctor goes, we go!” he argued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor kicked her legs up, planting her feet on either side of the doorframe, refusing to be dragged further. “Only immediate family of non-human evacuees are allowed!” the tall guard shouted. He was sweating with the effort of containing her. She could hear every grunt in her ear, listening to him swear and spit disgusting insults about her gender, her mother, her non-human status. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s my daughter!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” said the guard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” said Ryan and Yaz. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” said the Doctor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The room stilled. Anchyo and her daughter were still wrestling quietly with their guards, but the Doctor was frozen, feet still planted on either side of the doorway, her hands locked around the guard’s wrists where she’d been trying to wrestle them away from their grip around her belly. Her hair was wild, and a small wound on her forehead was bleeding down her face as she looked over her shoulder at Graham. A comical look of confusion was painted across her face that slowly morphed into anger. “Graham, no.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled at her, big and sickly-sweet. “Hush, petal, your old dad will sort this out.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of the corner of her eye, the Doctor could see the young, curly haired guard linger near the door. His hands were still by his sides, not reaching for a single weapon as he watched the drama unfold in front of him with a thoughtful look twisting his mouth in a pale, thin line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor felt her guard huff out a humorless laugh against her ear. “It’s a valiant try, but you’re human—she’s not.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham shrugged, suddenly casual and calm. She was familiar with this Graham—this Graham that had gotten better and better at selling a lie, spinning a story. This Graham who knew what people saw him as—a charming, somewhat bumbling old man—and used that to his every advantage. “Well, sure, I’m human,” he said, grinning. “But her mother—” He gave a small whistle, a wolfish roll of his eyes. “—well, we were all young once, eh, lads?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Gross</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the Doctor thought, her face scrunching up in disgust. The image was too horrible. A quick look at Yaz and Ryan showed that they too looked appropriately disgusted, but were keeping quiet, waiting to see where he would take the story. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind her, the guard tensed, his grip tightening around her—it was getting a bit difficult to breathe. “Fraternization between human and non-human citizens is illegal,” the tall guard hissed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then you won’t mind if I ‘evacuate’ with my little girl, then, would you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hearts hammering in her chest, she shook her head frantically. “Graham, stop it!” Twisting awkwardly around, she tried to look her guard in the eye. “Don’t listen to him, officer—he’s not my dad! Looks nothing like him! My dad was a ginger! Made terrible tea!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham offered a new, embarrassed sort of shrug. “She’s still cross about all the missed birthdays.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guard dithered for half a moment. “Take him with her,” he ordered the others.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugghhhh!” the Doctor complained. The guard pushed hard, throwing sharp weight against her ankles which bucked under the pressure, her boots slipping away from the doorframe. She yelped, reaching frantically to grab hold of the wall with her fingertips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham appeared at her shoulder, smiling with false cheer, completely unaccosted by the guards around him. “Don’t worry, dearie, daddy’s coming with you this time,” he said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am very annoyed with you right now!” Behind them, Yaz and Ryan stood stricken, torn between protesting and blowing Graham’s cover or going with his hastily made plan. “Stay together!” she shouted as she was yanked out the door. A second buzzer sounded and a pink metal cage door swung open in front of her. She struggled as the tall guard adjusted his grip, throwing her over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. “Find my screwdriver! And the TARDIS! I’m counting on you! No pressure, though!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Graham, Anchyo, and her daughter obscured her view of the two youngest members of the fam as the cage door slammed behind them. The final glimpse she caught, as she was carried around the corner into a dark corridor, was Ryan’s small, sad wave. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Day Two</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The cart they were thrown into was also a cage. A wooden cage with a big, mean, metal lock and the Doctor didn’t even have a hairpin let alone her sonic screwdriver to make a break for it. She would have to start carrying hairpins. And a little book on picking locks with hairpins. She was pretty certain she’d learned once, so maybe she would remember. Maybe, she thought, picking locks with hairpins was a bit like riding a bicycle. Not that she knew how to ride a bicycle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thoughts skittering around her brain like Krekirin beetles, she sat in the corner of the cart-cage, arms crossed across her chest, trying to pretend that the swaying of the cart and bumpy road weren’t making her incredibly nauseous. Graham sat opposite her, patiently waiting out her annoyance with him as he did typical, granddad-esque magic tricks of making coins disappear and then pulling them out of Anchyo’s daughter’s ear. It really wasn’t that impressive—not when she’d spent a whole week with Harry Blackstone Senior back in her younger, more masculine years—but the little girl was giggling and, she supposed, that was what mattered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wintery wind whistled through the cage, raising goosepimples along her neck. Her healing nose felt cold, and it hurt to sniffle. Squeezing her arms around her legs, she tried to ignore how achy shivering made her feel. Outside their cage, the road stretched on, beyond the village, away from the Holy Mountain towards a wide expanse of wilderness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anchyo, where are they taking us?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rogald,” Anchyo replied. “It’s a human town east of the Mountain. They say there’s a camp for us there, but there are rumors…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What rumors?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They say it’s a muster point.” Her eyes flicking up towards the cart driver sitting above them on a little seat, lazily flicking a thin stick at the horse-like creatures pulling the cart-cage, then over to the guards marching alongside them. Leaning closer, she whispered, “They say we are to walk to the temple ruins in the Eastern Desert.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s there?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing is there,” she said. “The walk is over two thousand miles of ice and tundra. The land is peopled with hillmen—wild tribes who hate the Goddess and sacrifice to vile gods of stone, who attack anyone who enters their land—and pocketed with human mining settlements. Our ancient temple is a pile of earth and crumbled caves.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor shook her head. “I don’t understand.” It was probably the concussion. Or old age. But probably the concussion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Trundling around a curve in the road, the cart slowed, the guards yelling out name, rank, etcetera etcetera, to new men posted along the road. The Doctor stood unsteadily, grabbing onto the wooden bars of the cage, and stared out in quiet horror. Behind a small gate, and ringed in pinkish barbed wire, was a mass of tents and small shacks cobbled together from blankets, bedsheets, and scraps of metal and earth. Columns of smoke rose up, clouding the air, while a pink sea of people moved around inside the muddy enclosure, bundled up in dirty coats and blankets. Mothers held thin, colicky babies to their breasts, men stared listlessly into campfires, boiling water in blackened kettles and percolators, and children ran through the mud and grime, playing games under the scornful eye of their human guards. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was what was outside the gate that caught the Doctor’s eye, though. Two Hollumim women, their pink skin now greyish and weathered, hung from a rickety gallows. Their bodies swayed eerily in the wind, bare feet dragging along the top of the cart’s cage as they drove underneath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Like a xylophone, </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Doctor thought, perversely. Disgusted, she pushed the thought away.</span>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The rumors, Doctor,” Anchyo said,  “are that they wish the walk, the wildmen, the land itself to kill us. So that Hollum will be a land peopled only by the humans.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my God,” Graham whispered. His hand found her elbow. “Doc.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She nodded. “I know.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tripping out of the cart, she allowed Graham to keep his light grasp on her coat sleeve. She was still dizzy, and that was the reason she was allowing the touch—it had absolutely nothing to do with comfort. She wasn’t touchy like that, nope, not at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anchyo stepped past them, her daughter in her arms, as she marched, head held high, into the rows of tents. Purposefully, the Doctor followed her. To Graham, she was still the leader, and she had to show a bit of initiative. Fake it ‘til you make it, that was the phrase! Trailing after Anchyo, the Doctor reflected on her years of experience in faking it. Her boots sank into the mud, leaving her toes cold and tingly as they walked away from entrance to the camp, their backs to the gallows. The Hollumim stared. Dark eyes watched the two human-looking prisoners that had just stepped into their camp with a strange mix of anger and apathy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anchyo?” It was a male voice, rising above the clamor of thousands of citizens all crammed into one small area. “Anchyo? Dano?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Luksa!” Anchyo cried, rushing forward. She slipped in the mud, caught herself with one arm and kept running towards a Hollum man who stepped away from a nearby tent and stumbled towards her. He looked tired, his pink skin pale, a thin beard hiding the sharp angles of his face, and he wore one arm in a make-shift sling. His black eyes were shining with tears as he ran towards Anchyo and her daughter. They met in the middle of a row of tents, throwing themselves into each other’s arms, crushing the girl between them. Anchyo sobbed. “Oh, thank the Goddess! Luksa!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man, Luksa, wept. He kissed Anchyo—her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids—before taking her daughter’s face in his hands and kissing her, too. “Oh, Dano, my brave girl! Thank you for taking care of mummy. Daddy is so sorry he left you.” He looked up, his gaze flicking briefly to the Doctor and Graham, before returning his full, loving gaze to Anchyo. “Are you hurt?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” she replied. “We’re fine. The Doctor and her father here, Graham—they’ve done their best for us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Graham’s magic, daddy,” their daughter, Dano, whispered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luksa looked over at them, curious. “Humans?” he asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hiya,” the Doctor replied. She wasn’t sure this was the moment to jump in, but she didn’t suppose there’d be a better one. “Nice to meet you. Luksa, was it? I’m the Doctor, like she said. Totally non-human.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Graham O’Brien,” Graham added with a wave. “Human, but very open-minded.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s not my dad,” the Doctor said hastily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luksa gave her a peculiar look before turning to Anchyo. “I have a tent with Nisho and Fajra. There’s space for more, but no one will accept a human in their tent.” He looked over at Graham and the Doctor. “I’m sorry. If my wife says you are good people, I trust her, but I’m not certain others will.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor nodded. She could feel the eyes of the camp on her and Graham, the weight of their suspicion sinking her deeper into the muck around them. “It’s fine, I understand,” she said. She forced a smile. “Maybe we could borrow a blanket or something? I don’t mind camping under the stars, but Graham here is a bit pickier in his old age.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that any way to speak to your father?” Graham snipped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stop it!” she hissed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To his credit, Luksa didn’t react to their odd banter. “I’m sure I can help find something to provide you shelter. Goddess knows it would be a sin to let a stranger freeze in this little hell.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bell suddenly sounded, echoing across the noisy camp. Everyone turned to stare up at the tall, mustachioed guard--the one that had hit the Doctor and dragged her out of her cell--now standing on top of a flat-bed cart. A young human boy, likely no older than fifteen, stood next to him, a drum on his back and bell in hand. “Attention for the Fourth Guardsman Fear-Not Teller!” the boy shouted. His voice was still squeaky, and a few Hollumim women in the crowd giggled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, silence settled over the people. The guard—Fourth Guardsman Teller, apparently—held up a piece of paper. “Tomorrow morning, at sunrise, the Roser people of Hollum will begin the evacuation to their holy place, so-named the Temple of the Eastern Miracle, for their safety of the safety of the human citizens of Hollum.” He paused, staring down at the camp. The Hollumim stared back, silent, waiting. Somewhere over the Doctor’s shoulder, a baby cried, someone coughed, and a child was hushed harshly. Fourth Guardsmen Teller preened, pleased at the crowd’s apparent subservience. The Doctor thought it made his face look particularly stupid. “No Roser is to be left behind. Each family may bring appropriate supplies. Those who resist will be treated as hostile dissidents, by the order of Leader Laigh.” Calmly, he stepped off the cart, and marched back towards the gate, trailed by the boy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took a moment before everyone turned away, back to their fires and tents. Luksa sighed. “Follow me, I’ll find you shelter.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz and Ryan stood shivering outside the jail-courthouse. The little human town they’d been transported to when they’d gotten themselves arrested was busy. It appeared it was a market day, with people shouting about fresh produce and fresher meat. Women haggled, and men bullied their way through business dealings. Carts led by not-quite-horses made their way up and down the street, carrying human citizens in richly dyed blues and greens, while a little girl waved at them as they passed by, shouting “A coin for the news! A coin for the news!” There was a school at the of the street, the yard full of playing children bundled up in layers of jumpers and felted hats. Between the jail-courthouse and the school, on every lamppost and spare wall, there were notices—announcements about the evacuation, warnings about terrorist attacks, propaganda lauding Leader Laigh, and colorful posters with twisted caricatures of the Hollumim people with too pink skin, knife-like cheekbones and dark eyes glinting evilly. A sign hanging over a cafe’s door read “No Rosers”. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this giving you Montgomery vibes?” Ryan asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely,” Yaz replied. “But the Doctor and Graham are counting on us. We need to find the sonic, then the TARDIS, and then rescue them.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How do we do that?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz sighed, looking back at the looming edifice of the jail-courthouse. “If the guards are anything like the police from earth, they probably searched the Doctor after they arrested her,” she said, thoughtfully. “Anything they would have confiscated would still be in that building.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are we gonna do?” Ryan said. “Just walk in and ask them for it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As the stood dejectedly in the snow, the wide front door to the jail-courthouse opened, and a lone guard walked out. It was the one who had opened the cell earlier, his curly hair blown back by the wind as he twisted a little cap in his hands nervously. Yaz grinned, an idea already forming in her mind. She had noticed the look on his face inside the jail, the way he had hung back, and didn’t do anything more to help move the Doctor or Anchyo and her daughter than simply unlock the door. He was young, too, not much older than either of them. “Follow me.” She took off running. “Hey! Wait up!” she called. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The young guard stopped, before shaking his head. “Oh no,” he said. “No. I can’t be seen with sympathizers. You have to go.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz frowned, ignoring Ryan’s hand on her shoulder as he slipped to a stop behind her. “I only wanted to say thank you,” she said, laying it on thick and a bit stupid-like. “You were the only one who didn’t hurt my friend and—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up! Shut up!” he hissed, looking around frantically. “Are you crazy? You’re going to make it seem like I like them.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Them who?” Ryan asked. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The native Hollumim,” he snapped. “Which I don’t. They’re troublemakers, the lot of them, and they’ve only sown discord amongst the people.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz grinned. “I know, I read that notice over there, too.” Ignoring the way the guard paled, she asked, “What’s your name?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ingram. Promise Ingram,” he replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, good! Cuz we were wondering if we could ask for a place to sleep,” Yaz replied. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She shot Ryan a look, and he quickly wiped the boggled look off his face and nodded emphatically. “Right, like she said. We’re just traveling, see, and it’s a long walk to our beds, so we figured we could find a friendly place to stay for the night. We can kip on the sofa, even.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And, seeing as how you’re a good, upstanding guardsmen, who would want to keep an eye on potential sympathizers like us,” Yaz continued. “What better place than where you can watch us all night—make sure we’re not getting up to trouble?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The young guard, Promise, twisted his cap in his hands, eyes darting towards the market where a few people were now starting to stare. With an annoyed look of someone who knew they’d been caught, he jammed the cap back onto his head, squared his shoulders, and placed a hand on the gun on his belt. The picture of a guardsman in charge, the market citizens began to turn away, assured that whatever was happening was being handled. “Fine,” he said. “Come with me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He marched ahead, letting Yaz and Ryan follow behind. Ryan dropped back a step, and whispered, “What are you doing?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t you notice?” she replied. “He called them Hollumim, not Rosers. I don’t think First Guardsman Ingram is as loyal as he’d like.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s scared?” Ryan asked, eyes darting up to Promise who was back to twisting the cap nervously in his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz shook her head. “Better,” she replied. “He’s conflicted.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Promise Ingram’s home was at the end of the road of stone row houses, with slanting doorways and crooked windows. Some of the homes had been painted, but most were all the same pink-grey stones, splattered with years of grime, and dusted in grey-tinted snow. Smoke puffed and curled out of a dozen chimneys. One or two of the houses had a small barn in the back where the not-quite-horses but definitely-chickens rooted in the slush. Laundry hung on lines strung across the yards, and the same rosy solar lampposts from the Hollumim village dotted the streets. Children played something like kickball in the street outside, looking dirty but decently fed. To Ryan and Yaz, it looked like some old photo of industrial England—crunched together, mucky, and a bit unhygienic, but bursting with life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two little girls rushed away from the other children as Promise walked up the street. “Papa! Papa!” They flung themselves against his legs, clinging like limpets. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He groaned, pretending to struggle. “Oh, God, somebody help me!” he cried dramatically. The girls giggled, shrieking in delight. The pink door of Promise’s house opened, revealing a pretty, freckled woman in a green dress, wiping her hands on her apron. Spotting Promise and the girls, she laughed. He held out his arms, pleading. “Oh, Hep, please! Help me! Monsters! Oh, I’m being attacked by terrible monsters!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The woman, Hep, smiled. “Well, those terrible monsters best be getting inside and washing up for supper, if they know what’s good for them.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leaping away from their father, the two girls rushed towards the door, curtsying hastily and deferentially to their mother before dashing inside, giggling wildly. Hep’s gaze shifted back to Promise, Ryan, and Yaz. “I didn’t know we were having guests for supper,” she said. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Promise cringed. “It’s best we talk about that inside.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He led them inside the crooked home. Yaz and Ryan followed Promise’s lead in tugging off their soaked socks and shoes and hanging up their coats and hats. Yaz took a moment to stare at the pair of children’s boots lined in a neat row, a sled leaning up against the wall nearby. “We’re sorry to intrude,” Yaz said politely as she stepped into the kitchen. A pink metal stove was tucked into one corner of the little room, a pot of stew bubbling merrily next to a hissing kettle. “But your husband very kindly offered us a place to stay for the night.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hep leveled him a stern look. “Did he now?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Their friend was evacuated today,” he replied. “Their </span>
  <em>
    <span>non-human</span>
  </em>
  <span> friend. With her human father.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan squirmed uncomfortably next to Yaz, but said nothing. Hep didn’t seem to notice, only sighed heavily and turned to yank the kettle off the stove with a loud, angry clang. “Promise, are you absolutely insane? Are you trying to bring eyes to our house? Think of the girls!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They put me in a rather difficult position—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve put </span>
  <em>
    <span>us </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a rather difficult position!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” Ryan said. “Look, we’re not trying to get anyone in trouble. But this has been a huge mistake. Our friend isn’t from here. None of us are. We just want to get our friend back and go home.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hep blinked at Ryan, before putting her hands on her hips and turning back to Promise with a look that seemed to say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Are you kidding me with all of this? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Promise cringed under her gaze. “If I left them on the street, then I let two sympathizers wander free, if I brought them home, there’s a chance we can control the narrative,” he said, wringing his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hep dropped her face into her hands and let out a huge groan of frustration. “Promise Ingram, you’ll be the death of me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grinning, he looked up at her. “You like it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> start,” she snapped, shaking a finger at him. A small smile quirked at the edges of her mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a burst of boundless energy and bright ribbons, the two little girls rush back into the room. Looking down at them, Yaz realized that neither of them can be any older than six. They were swimming in play clothes that look two sizes too big, their hands and faces now scrubbed clean. Stumbling to a stop in front of her and Ryan, they repeated the same polite curtsy they’d done for their mother. Yaz tried not to laugh when the younger one struggled to curtsy with the pockets of her green overalls. “Hello,” she cooed, kneeling in front of them. “what’s your names?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The younger one jammed a thumb to her chest. “My name’s Hope-Still. I’m this many!” She held up four fingers proudly in Yaz’s face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wow, that’s a lot!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh,” Hope-Still agreed. “And that’s my sister, Mary. She don’t talk much.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>talk much,” Hep corrected, pulling the pot of stew off the stove. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh,” Hope-Still agreed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s nice to meet you,” Yaz said, mock-serious. Hope-Still nodded back, mimicking Yaz’s solemn look. Behind her, Mary sucked her fingers, eyes wide. “My name is Yaz, this is my friend Ryan.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind her, Ryan waved, before moving to offer set the table for Hep. Extra chairs were pulled out of other rooms by Promise and crammed around the small table. Folding a towel in the center of the table, Hep placed the steaming pot of stew in the center, along with a pitcher of water and the kettle. Pulling a tall glass dome off a nearby shelf, she wound it like a music box until it glowed a bright, rosy pink and set it next to the stew pot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Everything’s pink here,” Yaz said, toying with the cutlery. “The glass, the lights, the spoons.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Promise smiled, and it was warm and friendly, a glimpse of the man beyond the nerves. “It’s the minerals in the soil. Makes everything pink,” he explained, sitting down and allowing Hep to dish him a bowl of stew. “The Hollumim believe that their goddess grew them out of the earth, and that’s why they’re pink, too. It’s why the Mountain is holy, because of its color—they believe their goddess comes down and sits at the summit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan nodded his thanks as a bowl was handed to him next. It smelled aromatic and gamey and delightfully alien. “You sure know a lot about the Hollumim.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Across the table, Promise froze, his gaze flicking up towards his wife then back down at this soup. “You pick up things,” he said. It might have sounded casual, except for the slight stammer as he looked away. “It’s a passing interest.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They spent the rest of the meal in awkward silence, interrupted only by the oblivious chatter of Hope-Still as she recounted the details of her day. “Mary and I won three games of eight base today! And I climbed onto the roof—did you know that Increase’s family got a baby chickens? I seen them from the roof!” Next to her, Mary nodded emphatically, silently corroborating every scrap of story. “And then Mary and I had a funeral for her doll because she died. And then—</span>
  <em>
    <span>and then</span>
  </em>
  <span>—Thomas dared Increase to lick a dead bird, but he wouldn’t. And then Increase told Mercy and Mercy told me and Mary that he heard about Thomas’s family hiding a Roser in their barn! And I—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s enough, Hope-Still,” Hep ordered. “Don’t tell stories about what sort of things people have in their barns. You understand?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hope-Still pouted. “Yes, Mama.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why don’t you two go get ready for bed,” Promise suggested. “Mama and I will be up in a bit.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, Papa,” Hope-Still sighed. “G’night, Mama. G’night, Yaz. G’night, Ryan.” Taking her older sister’s hand, Hope-Still slunk out of the kitchen with a huge, dramatic sigh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hep turned abruptly to Ryan and Yaz. “I can show you to your room now.” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <span>—-</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It took some negotiating, but Ryan and Yaz eventually elected to share the guest bed and sleep head-to-foot. The guest room was small, tucked into the corner of an attic, so they had to duck around the sloping ceiling. A little painting of the Holy Mountain hung on the wall over the bed, next to a larger painting of a charming winter scene. Yaz stared at it while she and Ryan turned their backs to each other to change into their borrowed pajamas. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think we can really convince them to help us?” Ryan said. His voice was quiet, subdued, as he stared at the opposite wall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz tugged the pale blue nightgown over her head, and turned around. “I think that Promise doesn’t want to hurt anyone,” she replied. “And, if we can convince him that this evacuation is hurting people, then maybe he can get us back into the jail to find the Doctor’s sonic.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ryan turned around, and burst into giggles at the sight of the ridiculous pajamas. Pointing at the long hems, the baggy shoulders, and all the silly lace and buttons, they laughed until they were crying, a day’s worth of anxiety falling off of their shoulders for a single, brief moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You look like a grandma!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Speak for yourself!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Laughter dying, Ryan wiped at his eyes. “Seriously, though, are you sure we can’t just break in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If we get arrested again, they could evacuate us like Graham and the Doctor,” she argued. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded, sinking down on his side of the little bed with a sigh. “I don’t like this. I don’t like Granddad being out by himself,” he said. “What if something happens to him?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Softly, Yaz put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s with the Doctor. They’ll both be fine.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A loud bump and a clatter of a chair came from the kitchen, followed by a man swearing. Both froze, looking at each other for a brief moment before sneaking to the door. Yaz turned the knob slowly, inching the door open until she and Ryan could squint out. Promise rushed past them, sidearm in hand, and out of sight into the kitchen. “Shh!” hissed a man’s voice. “It’s just me!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They could hear Promise sigh. “Beyinna, are you crazy?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Promise, you won’t believe it,” the voice, Beyinna, whispered. “There’s rumors of travelers landing beyond the Holy Mountain. Humans and non-humans, together.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz and Ryan looked at each other, inching open the door to sneak quietly into the hall. The stairs were creaky and they cringed as they slunk down them, huddled against the wall like two little kids creeping to steal a biscuit after bedtime. Yaz could almost feel Ryan’s buzzing nerves as they huddled at the bottom of the stairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In the kitchen, Beyinna eagerly went on, “Do you know what this means? They’ve lied to us, the planet isn’t closed! All this death, this genocide, it can stop.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There is no genocide, Beyinna,” Promise snapped back. “We’ve had this discussion. Yes, there is violence, but the people are being evacuated.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re being marched to their death, Promise!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The gasp escaped her before Yaz could clap a hand over her mouth. The noise was loud and echoing. She froze, waiting, desperately wishing she could grab hold of the air and swallow the sound back up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who’s there?” Promise called. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quietly, Yaz and Ryan stepped away from the shadow of the stairs and into the room. Yaz looked up first, raising her chin, ready to dare Promise to say something, but stopped. Shock zinged up her spine, into her brain that snapped and shorted as she tried to understand the scene in front of her. There, standing in the middle of the Ingram’s kitchen, bold as brass, was a Hollumim man. In the red glow of the lamplight, Yaz thought he looked rugged, with a crooked nose and a strong jaw hidden under a hint of stubble. In his arm, he held a blue guardsman coat with the patches torn away and replaced with a hand-sewn image of the Holy Mountain, spiny and pink. She felt his dark eyes study her and Ryan suspiciously, and confidently met his gaze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Looking back and forth between the man and Ryan and Yaz, Promise sighed. “Ryan, Yaz, this is Beyinna, my brother-in-law. Beyinna, this is Ryan and Yaz—your travelers.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Brother-in-law?” Yaz asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s Hep’s step-brother,” Promise replied, distracted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beyinna was already fuming at the sight of them. Throwing down his coat, he threw up his hands, his face stormy. “So you knew! This proves it--the planet’s not closed!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know nothing!” Promise snapped. “What are you trying to accuse me of? I am a guardsman. I follow orders, and my orders are to evacuate the Hollumim, not kill anyone! There’s no benefit to a genocide!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Beyinna stomped closer, leaning into Promise’s face. “This isn’t about benefit! The humans have long despised our people, stolen our land, defiled our temples, refused our business, enacted all kinds of debasing laws and penalties upon us!” He jabbed his finger against Promise’s chest. “And now you serve them!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am human,” Promise replied. “I can’t help how I was born, or who I serve anymore than you can.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey!” Ryan snapped. “I get that you two are mad at each other or whatever, and that times are tough, but the fact of the matter is that just yesterday Yaz and I saw a woman—a Hollumim woman—shot in the back while praying. I know you have a job to do, mate, but I don’t think the people you’re working for are good people. I don’t know about a genocide, but I know that our friends don’t have anything to do with your planet and they still been shipped off, just for being different than everybody. And that’s not right.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We need your help,” Yaz added. “If we can find my friend’s things then we can leave, you won’t ever have to worry about us again. We just need what the other guardsmen confiscated.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Promise shook his head. “I can’t steal from evidence--they’ll know. They watch.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathlessly, Yaz stepped forward, silly lace fluttering clownishly around her face. She yanked it down--now was not the time to be clownish. Now was the time to be PC Yasmin Khan. “Get us in, then,” she said. She knew she sounded desperate, knew it was a long shot. “Get us in and we’ll get it ourselves.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t get you back into the jail. I’m already under enough suspicion as it is with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>for a brother-in-law.” Glaring at Beyinna, he snapped, “If anyone spots him here, I’ll be arrested for treason.” He looked over his shoulder, at the stairs, where, above their heads, his wife and children slept. A floorboard squeaked, wind whistled through some forgotten keyhole of a draught. Promise shivered. “We all will.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz felt her heart sink into her stomach. She wrestled with the hopelessness, but it was a good wrestler. She gnawed her lip, searching for the next solution. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Ryan said. Yaz perked up. She watched Ryan twist to Beyinna. “ I thought they arrested all the Hollumim. Why are you still here? How did you escape?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have my ways.” Beyinna grinned, roguish. Promise rolled his eyes. “There’s a few of us. Mostly Hollumim, but some humans,” he explained, voice dropping to a low whisper. He laid his hand on his coat, stroking his thumb over the embroidered Holy Mountain on the sleeve. “We have an underground of sorts—sneaking people out and North to Yfonto. Mostly children. They’re accepting any refugees who cross their border.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A completely unnecessary action,” Promise snipped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be a fool! By the Goddess, are you blind?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yaz stepped between the two men. “All right, why don’t we all calm down here?” She looked up at Beyinna, who stood tall and angry above her. “Can you and your underground mates get us into the jail?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” he replied, glaring over her head at Promise. “Our only inside man refuses to see sense.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Promise glowered. The tension was a buzzing electricity dancing between the two men. For a moment, Yaz imagined her hair standing on end between them, teased skyward by the crackling of their anger and frustration. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, Promise sighed. “You need to leave,” he said. “I can’t have the children seeing you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sneering, Beyinna yanked on his coat and stomped back towards the door. A freezing gust of winter air blew through the home as he tugged on his hat. “Oh, and Beyinna?” Promise called. Beyinna stopped, looking over his shoulder. In the darkness, lit by the rosy streetlights, he could almost pass for human. Almost. “You may want to move your man in the neighbor’s barn.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Day Three </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dawn had broken, frigid and grey, disrupted by the sound of Teller’s boy marching through the muddy camp and ringing his bell, yelling at everyone to “Pack up and make ready!” in his squeaky, pubescent voice. </p>
<p>They left the camp with their tents and belongings on their backs. The Doctor and Graham had bickered over who would carry what, but, in the end, she won. Tying together the bulk of their scrounged belongings—a few scraps of rug, some blankets, rope, and a pink, metal cup—she hefted them onto her small shoulders. She could feel the way Graham looked at her, like she was a kid, as scrawny as Teller’s boy, and not perfectly capable grown-up who was thousands of years older than him. She gritted her teeth and grinned at him, spewing some story about Everest and Bono as she slogged through the mud and out of the camp, never once looking at the women swinging from the gallows above her. They followed after Anchyo and Luksa, who made sure to walk on either side of them to protect them from the human-directed ire of their neighbors, Dano holding onto Graham’s hand and singing cheerily beside him. </p>
<p>There had been no breakfast, but Graham had produced one of his hidden sandwiches from inside his coat pocket and divided it up between the five of them. The bread was soggy with old mustard and bologna, but the Doctor ate it gratefully, not letting on to how hungry she’d been. </p>
<p>Outside the camp, they followed the curving road east. The guardsmen’s carts, weighted down with supplies the Doctor was sure they weren’t going to share, led the long train of evacuees, setting a steady pace. It made her feel restless, walking along, like lambs to the slaughter. But all around them were guardsmen on not-quite-horses, rifles and handguns in hand—it was clear that anyone making a run for it wouldn’t make it very far. She hated guns. Only stupid people use guns. </p>
<p>She marched forward, angry.</p>
<p>The land outside the muster camp was a craggy expanse of snow-covered wilderness, punctuated occasionally by the sharp teeth of pink outcroppings, stabbing their way towards the sky. Sheets of thick, blue ice clung to the stones, glinting in the sun. The wind was sharp, stabbing through her coat, blowing snow in her face, burning her cheeks. Her nose was cold, and so were the hands she kept tucked under her armpits. Anxiously, she looked back at the crowd of Hollumim marching under the gallows behind her. There had to be over three thousand people. Old women in knit shawls shuffled next to young couples with babies held in their arms or tied to their backs, children bobbed and weaved through the sea of bodies, teenagers huddled in groups, whispering nervously—a pink, swirling sea of Hollumim humanity all marching into a barren wilderness of ice and snow. </p>
<p>“You ever read <em> The Left Hand of Darkness </em>, Graham?” she called over her shoulder. </p>
<p>“Now, you know I have,” he replied. “I know it was you who left it on my nightstand—don’t pretend.”</p>
<p>“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” She squinted across the open land and the shining ice and snow. “Tell you what, though, they had the right idea with the sled.”</p>
<p>“And the stove—I’m freezing!”</p>
<p>Next to them, Anchyo laughed. “The Eastern Desert is the coldest place in our land,” she said. “Just wait until dark.”</p>
<p>“Ta, love, thanks for the pep talk,” Graham snarked.</p>
<p>They walked on. Hours passed in slow, monotonous plodding and the cacophonous sounds of thousands of feet crunching through snow and ice. The ground of slurred to slush that slipped down into her boots. Her toes went from tingling to numb, her wet socks sliding down her heel. She could feel blisters grow with each step. She had done a lot of walking in her day, a lot of running, too. The sharp pull of her lungs as she breathed in freezing air was familiar, almost good. It woke up her brain, sent it buzzing again. Buzzing, like fizzing, was good. It was alive. </p>
<p><em> For now, </em> quipped some dark corner of her mind. She wished it would shut up.</p>
<p>Some of the Hollumim had supplies, jugs of water and spiced teas and warming wines; she and Graham had nothing. They ate snow off the ground for water, shoving fistfuls in their mouths until they melted. It was icy cold and made her teeth zing. The Doctor turned around and stuck out her tongue, dyed a bright neon pink. Graham laughed. “It’s the minerals,” she explained. “Totally harmless!” </p>
<p>“Like an ice lolly!” </p>
<p>She beamed just a bit too brightly. “Exactly!” </p>
<p>The sun inched a slow path across the sky until, finally, at midday, the guardsmen called a halt. The shouts and clanging bells echoed across the landscape. The Doctor flopped down on the ground with everyone else, breathing heavily, her head pillowed on their pack as she stared up at the vast sky. The Hollumim began to sink to the ground with sighs and cries of gratitude, the shifting and clanging of packs and supplies hitting the snowy ground rippled through the crowd. Graham groaned as he dropped beside her, offering her a tired grin. Slowly, the Doctor pulled off her boots, then peeled off her socks. Graham grimaced as she wrung out the water and blood, laid them carefully on top of each boot to dry slightly, and set to work lancing the blisters along her heels. “How are your feet?” she asked, refusing to look up. </p>
<p>“Better than yours,” he replied. “Put on proper hiking boots when we left the TARDIS.” </p>
<p>“Why? It was just a short walk.” </p>
<p>“You and I have a very different idea of what that means.” </p>
<p>He froze, looking up suddenly at a guardsman riding up alongside them. The Doctor looked up, muscles coiled, but the guardsman only sneered and threw a slice of bread at her. It struck her chest and dropped into her lap, shedding crumbs. Dry and crusty, it was clearly old and over-baked, so she shoved it in her pocket. Best to save it for when it was truly needed. </p>
<p>Around her, the Hollumim held the bread in their hands, no one eating, each waiting patiently until the guardsmen reached the end of the line and each person held a bit of bread. She startled as a woman started singing behind her. The language was ancient, with only bits making it through the TARDIS’s translation matrix, rough in places, sweet and soft in others. The woman’s alto voice shook, but carried far and was quickly joined in by thousands of other voices, old women and young girls all singing with her. The men replied in sharp shouts, punctuating the song with exclamations of passionate agreement. The hairs prickled along the Doctor’s arms; next to her, Graham sat, his bread in his hands, crying quietly. The song ended, the final note shivering in the frozen air. Slowly, the Hollumim turned to their little meal. </p>
<p>Huddled among their carts and not-quite-horses, scraping tinned meat out of cans and sucking on dried fruit, the human guardsmen glared.</p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>It was almost an hour after sunset, when everyone was shivering with cold that the halt was called for the night. Tents were thrown up in a rush, fires lit with the meager lumps of coal and dried dung. “I have spoken with Nisho,” Luksa said, appearing out of the darkness, as Graham and the Doctor busily laid out their scraps of rug and blanket. He looked dead on his feet, his good shoulder sagging, the jerry-rigged sling grimy and tearing along the seam. His smile, however, was kind. “You are welcome to warm yourselves by our fire for a bit.” </p>
<p>“But I’m human,” Graham said. </p>
<p>“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Luksa replied. “But no one in our party will do you harm.” </p>
<p>Nisho, it turned out, was the woman who had led them in song that day. She was seated with Anchyo, leaning against her side and staring thoughtfully into the fire as they walked up. Skinny as a rail, with long, slender arms and large black eyes that seemed to consume her long face, she looked barely older than eighteen. Her hair was dirty and her small frame was swallowed in layers of knitted jumpers and shawls, but when she stood, she held herself with a regal confidence. She greeted them Graham with a firm handshake and the Doctor with a friendly kiss, smiling brightly. “Welcome, travellers,” she said, her dark eyes shining in the firelight. “Dano has told me much about you.” </p>
<p>The Doctor grinned at Dano, who was sitting close to the fire, her small face obscured by the curling smoke. “Has she, now?” </p>
<p>“She seems quite enamored with your father.” </p>
<p>“Oh, he’s not—” </p>
<p>Giddy, Graham draped an arm around the Doctor’s shoulder. “See that, love? Someone appreciates me.” She batted his arm away, ignoring his barely stifled giggles. </p>
<p>Dano rushed to Graham, begging him to do more magic tricks, and babbling a mile a minute as she dragged him away to the other side of the fire. Graham followed, shooting the Doctor a playful wink as he was pushed onto a seat between Anchyo and Dano. “Come sit with me,” Nisho said, pulling her attention away. She grasped one of  the Doctor’s hands between both of hers. “Inside our tent—speak with me about your travels.” </p>
<p>The Doctor squirmed at her touch. “Oh, I don’t want to intrude.” </p>
<p>“You are a welcome guest,” Nisho replied, pulling her inside. </p>
<p>The tent was larger than her and Graham’s, made from multiple blankets and sheets, and carpeted with soft furs and thick woven rugs. In a nest of blankets, in the center of the tent, was a baby, kicking its tiny legs towards the ceiling. A soft noise—surprise? joy?—left the Doctor as she crept forward to stare down at the pink baby resting on the floor. It smiled and spit bubbles at her as she knelt beside it. “A tiny Hollumim! Oh, he’s very good. I like the ears especially,” she said. “Is he yours?” </p>
<p>“This is my son, Fajra,” Nisho replied, kneeling beside her. “It’s just me and him now.” She sounded sad.</p>
<p>The Doctor nodded. “It was like that for me, too, when I first started traveling. Just me and Susan.” She paused, hand held frozen over the baby. She’d been distracted, feeling warm and safe inside the tent, and had felt the strange urge to reach out, to touch the soft cheek, stroke the fine, dark hair curling around the baby’s ears. The words had dripped out of her mouth easily, dreamily even. The Doctor was <em> not </em>dreamy. Her breath hitched in her lungs, once, twice, and she looked up at Nisho with surprise. “You’re a priestess, aren’t you? I’ve heard stories about Hollumim priestesses being able to see the truth in things, but I didn’t expect—I mean, how did you do that?” </p>
<p>Nisho smiled. “Years of practice,” she replied. “Plus, the truth is so close to the surface with you. Most people wish to keep their secrets buried deep, but not you. You’re desperate to speak about it all, but you don’t.” </p>
<p>“Nisho, you seem like a lovely priestess,” the Doctor replied, “but, with all do respect, stay out of my head.” </p>
<p>“I would never breach your privacy so crudely,” Nisho replied. “I have heard all I need. Mostly from Dano. The story of a mysterious woman appearing to defend a Hollumim novice and her mother is enough to convince anyone.” </p>
<p>The Doctor stared down at baby Fajra, her hearts sinking, heavy and cold, into her stomach. Reaching out, she looped her finger through his tiny curled hand, and felt Fajra tighten his grip. “I’m going to help you, Nisho,” she said. “I’m going to stop this. I promise you.” </p>
<p>“I believe you.” </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>Day Six</p>
<p> </p>
<p>People were beginning to stumble. It wasn’t obvious at first, just a young child tripping, or an old woman sagging to the ground, only to be yanked back to their feet by their neighbors. The pace set by the guardsmen was still steady, but the evacuees were beginning to slow. She could see the agitation growing among the human captors—they’d only travelled forty-two kilometers since leaving the muster camp, with thousands more to go. Fourth Guardsman Teller rode past, waving a stick over his head. “Move along!” he called, flicking his stick at a small family towards the back of the crowd. “Keep up! Keep up!” </p>
<p>Graham caught hold of the Doctor as she lurched forward, his hands grabbing onto her pack. “Oh, no!” he said. “I can’t have you making trouble five minutes out the gate.” She glared at Graham, jerking the pack away from his grip as Teller rode back. She watched as he slowed his not-quite-horse as he passed her. A smirk playing on his lips as he offered her a sarcastic tip of his hat. </p>
<p>Squaring her shoulders, she kept marching forward, tripping through the slushy, turned-up snow and pink mud. She knew she was being harsh with Graham, who absolutely didn’t deserve it. Yes, it was terribly annoying that he’d thrown himself into danger for her sake, but wasn’t that the way of humans? She knew Graham was the most cautious of the fam, but still, here he was, marching along behind her, telling everyone that would listen made-up stories about her childhood just loud enough that she could hear. He didn’t understand what he’d gotten himself into—they never did. It wasn’t fair to be harsh. </p>
<p>The farther from the muster camp, the towns, the little cobbled-together ideas of civilization the guardsmen got, the more they seemed to delight in cruelty. Circling their not-quite-horses around the Hollumim evacuees, they ate dried meat and candied fruit with dramatic pleasure just to watch the desperate hunger on their faces. They found sticks to swipe at their legs and backs, and pushed the pace faster, impatient with the slow plod of thousands of bodies across the unforgiving frozen wilderness. They were warm, the Hollumim were cold. They had coal and firewood for roaring fires, the Hollumim rationed. They were above them—literally—towering like pale monsters over the native people. </p>
<p>Fourth Guardsman Teller circled back again, pulling his mount to a lazy trot beside the Doctor. She ignored him, marching straight ahead while, around her, Anchyo and Graham stepped closer. “Tell me your name,” he ordered. </p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>“Your father calls you Doctor, but that’s a title,” he said. “Tell me your name.” </p>
<p>“No.” </p>
<p>He glared down at her, then over his shoulder at the long line of evacuees. “You appear like us, and yet, you are not,” he said. “I had out physicians look you over, back in town while you slept—” </p>
<p>“I wasn’t sleeping—you hit me with your gun,” she snapped.</p>
<p>Waving off her comment, he continued, “He said he’d never seen anyone like you. On the outside, a human woman, but inside something <em> other </em>. Something alien. Worse than a Roser, you dare to look like us, slip into our towns, mingle with our people.” The Doctor rolled her eyes. Teller yanked hard on the reins, halting right in her path. “You will show me respect, you disgusting bitch!” </p>
<p>“I will do no such thing!” she shouted. “I will not be cowed by a pathetic man, who chooses to debase an entire species. You think you’re superior to these people? There are no superior people, Teller! We all live and die in a broken world and we have the choice between trying to repair the broken bits or breaking it more! You want respect? Trying being worthy of it first!” </p>
<p>The stick sliced through the air with a sharp whistle, then a sudden snap. The Doctor blinked up at Graham, standing in front of her, as he yanked away Teller’s stick and broke it over his knee. “That’s enough of that!” </p>
<p>Teller sneered and jerked his not-quite-horse away. His voice echoed across the icy fields as he shouted, “There will be no lunch today!” The crowds gasped and shouted in dismay. Some started to cry. “You can thank your Doctor and her human father!” </p>
<p>Wide-eyed, the Doctor looked over at Nisho and baby Fajra, then down at Dano. “I’m sorry.” </p>
<p>  —-</p>
<p>Day Seven</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Teller’s boy stumbled through camp before dawn, clanging his bell and shouting, “All up! Make ready!”, the first dead was found. An old man was found by his daughter, cold and still, rigamortis already settled into his limbs, when she rolled over in her tent to shake him awake. Her wail snapped the Doctor out of her light doze. </p>
<p>The guardsmen did not let them bury the body. The tent was broken down around him and his hysterical daughter, and she was dragged away by Luksa. “Hush, Nyny,” he whispered. “He did not suffer.” </p>
<p>Nyny tore away from him, and spat at his feet. “A curse on you!” she shrieked. She turned, black eyes wild and shining with tears, and stormed up to Graham. Her pink face red with rage, she shouted, “They refused us bread! They refused us bread because of you, filthy, defiling human, and your half-breed daughter!” She jabbed a sharp finger at the Doctor. “An old man starved because of you. His death is on your hands!” Turning back to Anchyo and Nisho, she shrieked, “Leave these creatures. Face the Mountain and align yourself with your people!” </p>
<p>Angrily, Dano shouted, “My mummy has always faced the Mountain!” </p>
<p>“A curse on you, novice,” Nyny snapped. </p>
<p>Nisho stepped between Nyny and Dano. “Walk away, sister,” she said. “Your grief consumes you.”</p>
<p>Open mouthed and eyes shining, the Doctor watched her go. Inside her stomach, remorse gnawed away at the hunger. </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>Day Eight</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“This isn’t working,” Ryan said, standing in the slanting, pink light of the guest room’s crooked window. He had his back to Yaz, focusing intently on the wall opposite him as they both rushed to change into their clothes in the brisk morning air. “Promise isn’t going to help us. You saw how he was with Beyinna. He’s got too much to lose.” </p>
<p>When the second day had passed and Promise nervously asked them to stay another night, then another after that, and another after that, Ryan and Yaz began to realize they were being watched. As much as they had on Promise, he was slowly gathering information on them. </p>
<p>On their third day in the little human hamlet of Ramose, they’d managed to find jobs to pay Hep and Promise a small fee for their room and board. Ryan spent his days cleaning the back of a local butcher’s shop, and occasionally hacking up cold cuts and odd steaks for customers up front, while Yaz found herself at a seamstress's shop, being shouted at for her sloppy stitches. Their employers seemed to tolerate their presence, however, when locals began visiting just to catch a glimpse of “The Travelers”. The rumors about them had swirled, circulated in part by Promise to spread the story that he was “keeping an eye on them”. They were the talk of the town—the friends of the mysterious, non-Roser alien and her human father were now living among them. Who were they? Where had they come from? What could they want? </p>
<p>At first, Yaz had tried to talk with the townspeople, pleasantly answering their questions with carefully constructed lies and casually pumping them for information. No one wanted to answer her. If there was any sympathy for the Travelers and their friends, it wasn’t about to be admitted by anyone. </p>
<p>There’d been a newspaper on the kitchen table when they’d slunk out of their beds for hot tea and porridge with Hope-Still and Mary the day before. The headline had been written in bold, snappy lettering, announcing the safe evacuation of the native Hollumim people. Pulled quotes were framed with elaborating scrolling, highlighting the words of Leader Laigh speaking about the safety of all citizens, and of guardsmen describing the care with which the Hollumim were being treated, the provisions they were given, the armed escort that would bring them east to safety. They’d poured over the blurry photo that accompanied the article, but found no sign of Graham or the Doctor. </p>
<p>Yaz couldn’t help but feel a little but hopeless. </p>
<p>“We have to stick with Promise. We haven’t got another plan,” she argued, shrugging on her new jumper—the soft blue kind with the ruffles that the human women of the town seemed to favor. She and Ryan turned to face each other. “C’mon, we’ve faced awful stuff before, and we always figure out a plan.” </p>
<p>Ryan nodded seriously as they both paused, racking their brains for the next filmy bit of a plan. It was always so much easier with the Doctor around, her constant exposition and excited techno-babble filling the space, sparking new ideas one after the other after the other. On their own it seemed so much harder. </p>
<p>“C’mon, think!” Ryan said. It sounded like he was talking to himself. “Graham and the Doctor are out there, getting farther away by the second—we need a plan.”</p>
<p>Sighing, Yaz dropped onto the bed and reached for her boots. “Walk me to work? Maybe some fresh air with help.” </p>
<p>Leaving Promise’s row house with a freshly baked roll each, they marched down the narrow street towards the town proper. Children ran alongside them, breathlessly rushing towards the school where the bell was already ringing. Hope-Still rushed past, shouting hello and dragging Mary behind her, hair ribbons flying behind her. They waved back, following them at a much lazier pace, Yaz holding her full skirt above her ankles to keep it from dragging through the pink slush. </p>
<p>“You think the Graham’s all right?” Ryan asked, suddenly. </p>
<p>“‘Course I do,” Yaz said, sounding more confident then she felt. “He’s with the Doctor, isn’t he?” </p>
<p>“It’s just—it’s been days, and they were counting on us.” </p>
<p>They stopped in front of the seamstress’s shop, looking up at each other nervously. On the street, the merchants, businessmen, shoppers, and even the newspaper girl all watched them with their odd mix of curiosity and suspicion. Yaz turned her back to them. “I have to go to work now,” she said. “Sew some terrible dresses. Keep your ears to the ground, and keep thinking about how to get into that jail.” </p>
<p>He nodded. “Yeah, ‘course. We got this. Team TARDIS!” They exchanged a fist bump. “Meet me after for coffee? Or whatever they call coffee here?” </p>
<p>“Definitely.” </p>
<p>—-</p>
<p>The Doctor sprung awake with a strangled yell. It was dark, long before dawn, and the inky black night had slipped it’s way into the tent from outside. Gasping for breath, she tried to rub away the image of the old man, his body decaying and sinking into the frozen ground, as it glowed like an afterimage on the back of her eyelids. She slumped forward, body aching and breath rattling in her chest. Her shoulders were sore from carrying their pack, and her arms were heavy with the ghostly weight of a child—no, not a child, <em> her </em> child, her <em> children </em>, hanging limply from her arms, delicate fingers trailing through the ash while around her Gallifrey burned. She looked down at her shaking hands, tried to picture their faces, just to see them again, but her arms were empty. She tried to picture them, grown up and smiling, tried to remember the grandchildren she’d dandled on her knee. Her arms remained empty. She could taste the smoke in her mouth. </p>
<p>“Doc?” </p>
<p>She sniffled, wiping furiously at her eyes. The smoke disappeared. “I’m fine, Graham.” </p>
<p>“No, Doc, listen.” </p>
<p>She did. Outside the tent, at the edge of camp there was a scream, then another, raucous laughter and whooping cracked through the frozen air. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, some deep, primal part of her revving like a Bezzer 9 semi-ionic engine. The screams grew closer, as both Graham and the Doctor frantically stumbled to their feet. The tent flap flew back and Anchyo and Nisho rushed in, carrying their children. </p>
<p>“What’s going on?” Graham cried. </p>
<p>Outside, something crashed, and shouts of excitements rose up, echoed by more screaming. They all stared at the tent flap, holding their breath as feet pounded in the snow and ice outside the tent before rushing past. </p>
<p>Anchyo turned to Graham, chest heaving, pushing Dano into his arms. “It’s the guardsmen—they are drunk and searching the camp,” she seethed. </p>
<p>“For what?” the Doctor asked. </p>
<p>“Women,” Nisho replied. </p>
<p>The breath froze in the Doctor’s lungs; behind her, Graham gasped. She felt him reach for her elbow, his fingers wrapping around her coat sleeve, trying to pull her closer, like <em> he </em> was protecting <em> her </em>. A wail pierced the night, loud and long, and everything about the Doctor told her to move, to run towards the sound, to fight the guardsmen with her fists, with her nails if she had to, but her arms felt heavy and her lungs were full of ash and her pockets were so empty. There were multiple screams, and only one of her. In her mouth, she tasted ash. </p>
<p>“We have to do something.” Her voice sounded raspy. </p>
<p>Looking over her shoulder, towards the tent flap, Nisho pushed Fajra into the Doctor’s arms. “Take him. Keep him and Dano safe.” </p>
<p>“Wait, where are you going?” Graham asked, tugging Dano to his side. </p>
<p>Nisho’s face was serious, so serious, but with the hint of a smile, like she was seeing a bit of the truth of things. “I am a priestess. I have a duty to my people.” Giving the Doctor a knowing look, she added, “A duty of care.” </p>
<p>“I can come with you,” the Doctor replied. In her arms, the baby felt like a fifty pound weight, ready to drive her to her knees. She shifted, trying to wake up her aching limbs, to shake off the ghosts. Fajra started to cry. “I can help.” </p>
<p>“You made me a promise to fix all of this, Doctor,” Nisho said, lightly. Her teasing tone rang perversely in the Doctor’s ears, while her serious tone weighed her down. For a moment, the Doctor wondered what other powers the priestess possessed to root her so firmly to the ground. “I’m holding you to that. Stay inside. Stay hidden, stay safe.” </p>
<p>Kissing her firmly, she took Anchyo’s hand and rushed back out of the tent, into the screaming and chaos. Graham tugged at the Doctor’s sleeve, pulling her back into the corner, where they huddled together, flinching at the screams and shouts until dawn came. </p>
<p>The Doctor crouched, holding the baby, disgusted with herself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Greetings from the Pandemic State--I mean the Evergreen State. I, like many of you, now have a lot of free time on my hands. So, hopefully, we'll see some more frequent updates here.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Day Nine</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>Yaz was a bit confused when her boss, Miss Temperance Merriweather-Sheen, announced they were closing early. In the few short days Yaz had been working for her, she’d been forced to work overtime nearly everyday with not a penny extra to show for it. Every dress </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be finished by the date promised, and not a day later, regardless of the workload heaped upon them. Yaz couldn’t count the hours she’d spent hunched over a particularly long train, Miss Merriweather-Sheen leaning over her shoulder, criticizing every crooked fell stitch as the shadows grew in the shop and they both struggled to see the delicate hems in the dull, red lamplight. The idea of closing early was an almost obscene idea to Miss Merriweather-Sheen, </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>when there were unfilled orders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our ladies will understand,” she told Yaz, glaring at the way she was hastily folding a blue lace dress into a box on the work table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz looked back at her work. “But I have three dresses to finish,” she said. “And Mrs. McTavish will be so cross—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Miss Merriweather-Sheen snapped. Her dark eyebrows cinched together, wrinkling her face like an old apple. “Now, c’mon, girl, let’s go.” Stumbling over her stupid, ruffled skirt, Yaz pulled on her coat and tumbled gracelessly out the door. Miss Merriweather-Sheen locked the door and jiggled the handle, just to be sure. “Come along, then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” Yaz said. “It’s not even lunch yet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Miss Merriweather-Sheen would sometimes tease her with the promise of buying lunch for them at the hotel cafe if Yaz “did a good enough job”. It held the promise of warm soups, fancily plated vegetables, and the softest, most decadent cakes that Hollum had to offer. Yaz had heard it talked up many times by the fancy ladies at the shop, who placed their gloved hands over hers and said, “Oh, you simply must try it, dear little traveler.” Yaz generally was more of a Chinese take-out or the halal place down the lane sort of girl, and, if she was honest, she couldn’t stand the snooty women who came into her shop. But they made the cake sound </span>
  <em>
    <span>so good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Still, Yaz had yet to do a good enough job to earn a lunch at the hotel cafe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re not going to lunch,” her boss snipped, turning her piggy nose towards the sky. “Honestly, don’t you read the paper?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz shrugged. “Well, I work a lot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ducking against the sharp wind that whistled down the street, Yaz followed in Miss Merriweather-Sheen’s shadow, dodging carts and hawkers as they made their way to the opposite end of town. Pink slush soaked the toes of her boots, setting them tingling, and she wished desperately that she’d brought a hat when she’d left for work that morning. Someone bumped her, but didn’t say “excuse me”, instead pushing past her, grumbling out quiet slurs. Yaz looked up, ready to tell him off—the street was flooded with people. Men and women were leaving their shops in droves, trickling out from their homes in little bunches, schoolchildren followed their teacher down the street, holding hands in a little chain. They were all walking in the same direction, converging into one crowd outside the jail-courthouse. People boxed her in on all sides, huddling in that no-personal-space way that Yaz had started to notice in the humans of Hollum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the heads of the people, Yaz could just see a little platform built over the jail-courthouse’s pink stone steps. A small podium at the platforms’s center was hastily festooned with Hollum’s flag, a blue monstrosity of conflicting design. Yaz squinted, trying to work out what the fuss was all about. At the edge of the crowd, in the shadow of the jail-courthouse, sat a black cab, polished to gleaming and pulled by two beautiful, grey not-horses. The curtains were pulled on the window to the cab, but, as Yaz squinted, she saw them twitch aside showing the flash of pale face. Clearly, someone was going to speak, but who would be bothered to come to the backwater town of Ramose?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You too, eh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz jumped, glaring at Ryan as he laughed at her surprise. “Ryan! Don’t be sneaking up on people like that!” she said, pressing her hand against her hammering heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I called for you,” he said. “You were off in space.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish I were in space,” Yaz grumbled, crossing her arms over her obscenely ruffled dress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Placing a hand on her shoulder for balance, Ryan pushed himself on tip-toe, straining to see the podium over the crowd. “What’s this all about, you think?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D’know…” Yaz murmured, as a hush fell over the crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A guardsman marched across the stage, a paper held firmly in his hands. He was pale, cheeks and nose red with the cold. In the silence, Yaz could swear she could hear the rattling of the paper in his trembling hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is—” The guardsman's voice squeaked horribly. He froze, blushing to his ears, before clearing his throat. “It is with great pleasure that I stand before you today, representing the faithful law of this land. We, the country’s guardsmen, humbly serve the community and those beyond. We are proud to join with you, the human citizens of Ramose, to welcome today our most benevolent elected sovereign, Leader Makepeace Laigh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cheer went up from the crowd, swallowed up by the riotous rumble of applause. Yaz flinched as someone whistled in her ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stepping out of the black cab, flanked by two guardsmen, Leader Laigh climbed the steps to the podium. He was a striking man—pale, like most of the humans on Hollum, with blonde hair that was nearly white, and sharp eyes the color of ice. He might have been beautiful, Yaz thought, if not for the sneer on his lips and the sharp twist of his nose. He had the dangerous look of an old fighter, wiry muscles hidden underneath a fine suit and coat. Yaz didn’t like the way he surveyed the people below him, like standing above them gave him pleasure. Smiling genially at the crowd, he held up his hands and watched with pleasure as they fell into silence. Behind her, Yaz felt Ryan shiver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“People of Ramose,” Laigh said. His voice was loud, but calm, like an old theatre actor. “I thank you for your warm welcome. Warmth is something I know we all crave here in Hollum.” The crowd laughed generously. Yaz rolled her eyes. “It has been a trying time for us. I know many of you are weary of the violence between our people and the natives that carelessly waste land and resources, that have withheld what is precious out of selfishness and fealty to old gods and old ways. I know we have all lost business, time, money, even family to the Roser rebellions.” Around Yaz and Ryan, the townspeople were nodding, murmuring their agreement. Yaz saw some of the men growling in anger, while beside her Miss Merriweather-Sheen dabbed at tearful eyes with an embroidered hankie. “This violence has stretched on for too long. But no more! We have reached an agreement with the Rosers—a land to the east is being prepared for them. A safe place near their holy sites where they may prosper and do as they desire. The Roser citizens have chosen to give up their lands for a land that will be theirs completely. Human citizens of Ramose, the violence is over! No more will we have to barter for the tiniest bit of pink ore, scrabble for the land the Rosers have greedily hoarded. They have </span>
  <em>
    <span>given </span>
  </em>
  <span>it to us gladly for a land of their own!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The people cheered, applauding wildly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz shook her head. “That’s not true,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hush, girl!” said Miss Merriweather-Sheen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it’s not!” Yaz insisted. She stumbled forward, the crowd swallowing up Ryan behind her, and grabbed onto Miss Merriweather-Sheen’s arm. “I saw it! In the village by the Mountain—homes ransacked, people shot!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be quiet!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he’s lying!” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bang!</span>
  </em>
  <span> A gunshot rang through the air. Yaz dropped on instinct. Reaching out blindly for Ryan, her hand brushed a stranger’s arm instead. Around her, citizens screamed, some dropping to their knees in the slush and covering their heads, some running frantically for cover. Children wailed in panic as school teachers tried to wrangle them towards safety. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Liar!” shrieked a new voice. A Hollumim woman stormed through the crowd. She was young, her pink face soft and round, but her black eyes blazing. Marching forward, red skirts knotted above her knees, she pushed through the panicking humans. “Liar!” The Hollumim woman raised her arm, pistol clutched in her hand. “Murderer! Baby killer!” Her accusations echoed over the noise of the panicked crowd. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bang!</span>
  </em>
  <span> The pistol jerked in her grasp, smoke curling in the air. Leader Laigh yelped, his hands flying to his shoulder as he tumbled off the platform. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gasping, the woman turned to run. The guardsmen pulled their weapons, firing over and over. Bullets whizzed over Yaz’s head as around her people screamed in terror. She watched the woman’s body jerk and convulse strangely as bullet after bullet struck her back, spraying blood onto the ground and clouding the air with smoke. Her black eyes grew wide as she fell forward into the pink slush and mud. Blood trickled from her mouth, pooled underneath her body. Scrambling forward, Yaz tugged at the woman’s shoulders, pushing her fingers against her throat, finding a weak pulse. The woman looked up at her, gaze distant. Raising a trembling hand to touch Yaz’s cheek with muddy fingers, she wheezed, “Sister.” Yaz took her hand, squeezed her fingers. “Goddess forgive me, sister.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz choked on a sob as the woman fell limp in her arms, hand sliding away from her cheek. Blood stuck to her stupid, frilly dress, dripped out of the woman’s open mouth. Slowly, Yaz placed her fingertips gently on the woman’s eyelids and closed them before sliding out from beneath the body. Sniffling, she arranged the woman’s skirt modestly around her legs, and tugged at her coat to make it sit right around her shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stopped. There—embroidered neatly on the coat sleeve in pink thread—was an image of the Holy Mountain. “You’re underground,” Yaz whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, traveler!” Yaz jumped, looking up at the guardsmen standing over her. “Get away from the body! Now!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fumbling to her feet in her fussy dress, Yaz backed away from the Hollumim women and the guardsmen leaning over her body. She felt, more than saw, Ryan walk up behind her and wrapped one arm blindly around his. “C’mon, Yaz,” Ryan said, tugging gently at her. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing, Yaz nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I don’t want to be here anymore.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked away, weaving through the scattered crowd towards Promise’s house. Impulsively, Yaz looked back and gasped. There, hunched over his injury, Leader Laigh was watching her, icy gaze following her and Ryan as they walked away. Slowly, he smiled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p> <span>—-</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Day Ten </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood gushed from Yaz’s nose, dripping down her face, smearing her lips. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken a punch—she’d sparred plenty at the gym, with her mates, with the haughty male probationary officers who thought they could easily beat a girl. The ringing in her ears, the bright-shinies flickering across her vision were old friends, so she focused on the rush of adrenaline instead of the rushing in her ears and looked the guardsmen straight in the eye.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angry one—shorter, stockier, and with clearly something to prove—had been the one to kick down the door to her and Ryan’s bedroom that morning. They’d only been half-dressed, whispering plans back and forth to each other, having the same conversation they had everyday as they scrabbled for a sliver of an idea to get into the jail-courthouse, when the guardsmen had burst in, guns drawn. Yaz’s first instinct had been to try to fight back, to use her police training, subdue them, but there had been five of them. It gave her a sick sort of pleasure to know it’d taken three of them to get her down, grinding her face against the floorboards as they’d cuffed her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Traveler Yasmin, Traveler Ryan, you are under arrest for conspiracy to assassinate Leader Laigh,” shouted a tall, ginger guard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” yelped Ryan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We haven’t!” shrieked Yaz. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>The ginger guard shouted louder, “Any resistance will be taken as an act of hostility and you will be shot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz looked up as they dragged her to her feet. Promise was standing in the doorway, nervously twisting his cap. “Promise!” she shouted. “Promise, you know this isn’t true! You’ve been watching us! Tell them!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir, I cannot confirm the travelers whereabouts at all times,” Promise said. He looked everywhere but at Ryan and Yaz as they were dragged out of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guards were rough, holding them both in bruising grips, hurrying them along towards the front door. Yaz heard Ryan trip as they hurried him down the stairs, heard him yelp in pain. The slush and mud stung her bare feet, her toes immediately going red and numb, as they pushed her out into the street, marching them towards the jail-courthouse. People stopped and stared—the newspaper girl, the hawkers and merchants, even the fancy ladies in their carts all watched them rush by with practiced apathy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside the jail-courthouse, the hastily built stage had been partially dismantled. Planks of wood, torn from the floor, had been forced into the ground, nailed to each other and shaped into a strange sort of gallows. Tied and nailed to the wood, like some ancient martyr, was the body of the underground woman. Her pink face was grey, dried blood still pasted onto her chin and neck and dyeing her shirt a strange rusty brown. Ryan gasped as they passed; Yaz looked away. Underneath her bare feet, the pink stone steps scraped her skin. Over her shoulder, the underground woman’s boots knocked against the wood as the frame juddered in the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were thrown together into an empty room, forced into the metal chairs bolted to the stone floor underneath them, and cuffed in place. “What’s going on?” Ryan asked, eyes wildly roving around the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Interrogation room,” Yaz replied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angry one snorted. “Clever girl.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few of the guardsmen filed out, leaving only the ginger and the angry one. They looked funny standing next to each other, Yaz thought hysterically. Like a vaudeville duo—tall and short, stocky and skinny, ginger and grimy, black hair. Abbot and Costello. Laurel and Hardy. Bad cop and badder cop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angry guardsmen snapped a chair around, straddling it in a way that he probably thought looked very cool. “We’ll start simple, then, shall we?” he said. He nodded at the ginger one, who pulled a notepad and pencil out of his back pocket. “What’s your names?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ryan and Yaz exchanged glances. It couldn’t be that easy, could it? “Yasmin Khan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ryan Sinclair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Address?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again, they exchanged looks. “We’re from Earth. Sheffield. England.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angry one sighed. “Now, see, we got a problem,” he replied. His voice was pitched high, nasally, and he took on a tone like he was talking to a child. “You can’t be from a different planet, because this planet is closed. You know what that means, right? Space travel—outlawed. No one comes in, no one goes out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you do got a problem,” Ryan replied. “Cuz Yaz and me? We’re from Earth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The punch was sudden. One minute, he was in his chair, the next the guardsman had leapt towards Ryan, slamming his fist violently into his chin. Yaz shrieked. “What’re you doing? He’s not lying!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guardsman sniffed, tugging at his belt. “Now,” he said, grinning. “We’re going to try this again. Where are you from?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re from Sheffield,” Yaz snapped. The punch was hard, and she blinked away the stars. “We’re not lying! What do you want us to say?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The angry one shook out his hand. “Listen, girl, I got all day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Abey, ask her about the conspirators,” the ginger prompted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was getting to that!” Letting out a short, frustrated sigh, the angry guardsmen—Abey, apparently—turned to Yaz, plastering on a wide grin. “Tell us about the conspirators who attempted to kill Leader Laigh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz shook her head. “We had nowt to do with that!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She expected the punch this time, tried to relax, hoping in some strange way it would hurt less—like a drunk falling—but the blow had her head snapping back, knocking against the metal frame of the chair. Ryan was shouting at the guardsmen, echoing her cries of innocence. Air seemed sparse, and she gasped. So, this was it, not an interrogation but torture. No problem, she could deal with this. It was just a bit of danger. Yes, it was a different kind of danger than she’d experienced with the Doctor, but everything was a new experience traveling with the Doctor. She’d done giant spiders, pting, Daleks, mud, and men with teeth in their face—she could handle a bit of alien police brutality. Probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The questions came quickly, one after the other, mashing together in a mess of words, blurring into noise. She coughed and spat. Grinned at their disgust as blood sprayed down the front of her stupid, ruffled dress.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the door to the interrogation room was thrust open. Yaz blinked as Abey the angry guardsmen stepped away from her, snapping to attention. Across from her, Ryan sagged in his chair, blood dripping from his nose and smearing his teeth a strange pink. With one swollen eye, he tried to wink at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have they revealed anything?” The voice was familiar, cold and commanding. Yaz looked up and into the impassive face of Leader Makepeace Laigh. In her blurry vision and haloed in the pink lamplight, he looked like how she imagined demons as a child—hellish and beautiful all at once. He studied her clinically, like she was some interested specimen, his blue eyes empty. “Anything about the Roser rebels?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They both claim they know nothing, sir,” Abey replied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, yet, the girl grieved for the Roser woman, held her hand, cared for her body,” he replied. He crouched in front of the chair, polished boots stepping into the drying splatter of her blood. She looked at him, staring back into his eyes as he stared into hers, refusing to look away first. “Why would you do that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cuz she was a person.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leader Laigh snorted. “Hold them,” he said, snapping their order over his shoulder. “No food, no water. Let them cool their heels until they’re ready to speak.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right away, sir.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Taking a slow breath through her aching nose, Yaz looked at Laigh with every ounce of disgust she could dredge from her being. She watched his lip twitch, his fingers shift uncomfortably. He looked away, eyes darting to the guards behind him as he stood up to his full height, sneering down at her. She smiled back, a small burst of pride sparking in her mind at the knowledge that he’d broke first. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Day Twelve </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nisho didn’t return. Her body was found when the revelry died down and the people slipped from their tents. The guardsmen, drunk and tired, had slunk back to their own tents to sleep off their hangovers. Two women were dead by their hands, a few more injured, while dozens of other Hollumim had died in the night, from cold or starvation or fear—it was difficult to tell. The wailing swept across the camp like a tidal wave, or a pandemic. The women screamed out prayers and curses, the men sobbed, but everyone mourned. It couldn’t be called cathartic, there was no resolution, no one felt better afterward, but it was something. Finally, as the guardsmen stumbled out of their tents, hours later, complaining of the noise, Anchyo stood on a rocky outcropping at the edge of the camp and shouted, “Priestess Nisho is dead! Priestess Dano lives!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Solemnly, Graham picked up Dano’s skinny body and lifted her onto one shoulder. The Doctor could see her tremble as she held out one hand over the gathered Hollumim. Silence fell. Everyone turned to look at their child priestess, perched on the shoulder of a human man. Her sharp treble voice echoed across the camp, “The Goddess remains merciful, even when She hides. We face the Mountain!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor looked down at Fajra, sleeping in her arms, and felt sick. Even in foxholes, she was still an atheist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they’d walked, and stopped, and ate, and slept, and woke up to walk again. Day nine, day ten, day eleven—they blurred together. The Doctor tallied up the days and steps in her head. One hundred seventy five kilometers. One hundred seventy five kilometers of thirst and starvation, of aching feet and bodies, of ice and snow. When they stumbled into a small mining settlement on day twelve, she finally allowed herself to feel a burst of hope. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The settlement was little more than a few storefronts and a huddle of houses at the edge of a deep, wide hole that had been cut into a hill. The mountainous pile of stone shards and discarded bits of impure pink ore that was the spoil heap loomed over the evacuees as they stumbled into the town, herded on all sides by the guardsmen. The townspeople all stepped out of their homes to watch them stumble by. Mostly men, with scattered women and children, they stood in the wind, staring at the pink bodies now twelve days skinnier, twelve days dirtier, and boggled at the Graham and the Doctor stumbling along in their midst. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A Hollumim woman pushed away from the crowd, reaching chapped hands towards a human mother standing outside a little store, a toddler clinging to her skirts. “Please,” she said. “Have mercy, they’re killing us.” The mother stepped back, eyes wide, darting frantically up at the guardsmen and down at the Hollumim woman at her feet, her pink hands wrapped around the hem of her skirt, tugging frantically at her apron. “Please, we will die. We are starving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, there was a rush, the Hollumim people pushed against each other, charging towards the miners, the townspeople, begging for help, for food, to be rescued, to be protected, for shelter, for blankets, for mercy. The guardsmen started shouting, ordering everyone to “Keep moving! Move along!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was then she spotted him. A dairyman, selling bottles of milk out of a cart along the side of the street. His face was weathered, but round and friendly. He watched the Hollumim weeping in the street, nervously twisting the reins in her hands. Against her chest, the Doctor felt Fajra begin to fuss and cry. It had been half a day since he’d had anything. The bit of milk—tinned, powdered, and mixed with snowmelt—that she’d been able to scrounge had run out that morning. “Doc, wait!” Graham cried, reaching for her coat sleeve. She was already gone, pushing through the sea of evacuees, straight toward the dairyman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need milk,” she announced. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dairyman blinked at her. “What?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She licked her lips. “I need milk,” she said again. “I have this baby. Babies need milk.” Something burbled in her belly—anxiety? fear?—and she twisted her hands. Humans were such a mixed bag. Kind or cruel, you could never make a good bet on them. She waited, standing before the dairyman, hoping he was kind. Hoping he would take pity on her, on baby Fajra strapped tightly to her chest. “Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, the dairyman’s face shifted, and he looked at her dirty face, her red nose, her chapped lips before his gaze dropped to Fajra. She watched his eyes soften, mouth draw itself into a tight, white line. “I remember when mine was that little,” he said. His voice was husky, hands trembling as they drifted towards the bottles packed tightly in the back of his cart. “Used to cry all night. Never got a wink o’ sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor felt her spirit lift even as her aching body sagged in relief. She looked at the man—the human dairyman—and reveled in the knowledge that she’d picked well all those thousand of years ago when she’d aligned herself with the scrappy little human race. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the dairyman froze, fear growing in his eyes. The heavy sound of hooves beat behind her, the long shadow of Teller falling across the dairy cart as he yanked harshly on the reigns. The not-horse snorted and snapped underneath him, eyes rolling. Teller ignored it, glaring down at the Doctor instead. “Get back in line, woman,” he ordered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor growled. She was getting very tired of Teller and his space-racism and his sexism. She liked being a woman, but she did not like how other people did not like her being a woman. Angry, she turned away from Teller, and looked over at the dairyman, eyes wide, one hand resting on Fajra’s swaddled head. “Please,” she begged. “Please, he will die.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guilt, the pity, the fear all flashed across the dairyman’s friendly face. She watched his hand tremble, his fingers still curled around a slim neck of the milk bottle, as he looked up at Teller. Then, she saw him choose. The dairyman’s eyes grew dark, his thick eyebrows knit together, his friendly face became angry, cruel. “Get away from me, you traitorous bitch,” he hissed. The Doctor gasped as he spat at her feet. “How dare you speak to me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Graham appeared at her side, stammering out excuses and apologies to Teller as he started to drag her away, throwing in some fatherly scolding for appearances' sake. As he tugged her back to Anchyo’s side, he whispered, “I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked up at him, tugging at the last bits of hope she had, gathering them all together as she wrapped her arms loosely around Fajra. “You’re a good human, Graham.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fajra was crying. It was dark outside the tent, the stars shining with uncommon intensity above the sparkling frozen desert. Inside the tent, people were trying to sleep. The Doctor could see how Dano had wormed herself between Luksa and Graham, trying to muffle the sound in layers of blankets and bodies. Both men were still awake when they needed to be sleeping. Still awake because Fajra would not stop crying. Fajra had been crying for hours. His tiny pink face was screwed up, twisted around his little nose, his wide, gummy mouth open wide, squalling endlessly. It wasn’t his fault—he was a baby and he was hungry, and babies cried when they were hungry. She knew that. Everyone knew that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what could she do? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A memory itched somewhere behind her eyes. There had been nights like this, with her first child who cried for what seemed like days. She remembered the frustration of it. Of looping through fruitless solutions—bottle, pacifier, new nappy, songs, funny faces—before finally collapsing from exhaustion. The second child had been the opposite. Rarely fussing, rarely crying. Quiet, just so quiet. She remembered sitting at his cribside, watching, one hand resting over the tiny, round belly, terrified he’d stop breathing and she wouldn’t notice. She was never great with babies. Children, she understood, but it was her wife who was good about babies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, heavens, her wife! The one long ago, before River, her face long faded from memory. She remembered her hands, though, small and delicate on her shoulders back when her shoulders were broad, masculine. And her smell! She remembered her smell—earthy, like patchouli, except not quite patchouli, something else. Some scent of some flower she’d forgotten the name of. It had been pink, though, she was fairly certain of that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pink like baby Fajra’s crying little face. Oh, if only he would stop crying! Of course he was hungry, they were all hungry! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paced the length of the tent, Fajra tucked in her arms. The old silly motion—bobbing knees, rocking hips, the odd sway—were still ingrained somewhere in her as she tried to sooth him. She tried to remember the lullabies she’d sung, thousands of years ago, but the only thing her mind could conjure was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Postman Pat</span>
  </em>
  <span> theme song and she quickly discovered that Fajra was not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Postman Pat</span>
  </em>
  <span> fan. “C’mon, please stop crying,” she whispered. “Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wanted to cry. It wasn’t a thing she did a lot of in this regeneration. The others, the earlier ones, all those boys and men, could be quite weepy. But she’d refrained, held back. Now, though, everything seemed so close to the surface. She felt raw, anxious. The weight of her promise to Nisho that she would somehow save them all, somehow fix this, was the weight of her infant son, crying with hunger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tent flap flew back, letting in a blast of cold air that sent Fajra’s crying into a fever pitch. The Doctor glared at Anchyo as she marched in, grinning wildly. “Good news!” Anchyo said over the wailing. “I found a nursemaid! Come with me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wrapping herself in loose blankets and tucking the still crying Fajra against her chest, the Doctor followed Anchyo into the dark, still night. They slipped through the frozen alleys between the sea of tents until they reached the other side of the camp, close to the road. The tent was smaller than theirs, the rugs and blankets that formed it were thin and patched, but stepping inside, the heat of the bodies within had warmed the space a few slight degrees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A young Hollumim woman looked up. Her face was round and youthful, but twisted in suspicion. “You didn’t say she was the half-breed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic sprang to life in the Doctor’s chest. She needed this woman. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fajra </span>
  </em>
  <span>needed this woman. Still bobbing and swaying ridiculously, she opened her mouth to reply, but Anchyo beat her to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peace, sister,” Anchyo replied. “Who else would it be? You know as well as any who cares for Nisho’s child.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frantically, the Doctor said, “If you don’t help, he will die.” The woman’s expression soured. “Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She watched the blank expression slam down like a shutter across the woman’s face. Slowly, the woman reached out her arms, waiting patiently as the Doctor shed her layers of blankets and lowered Fajra down. Her jaw set, the woman loosened the ties of her shirt and tucked Fajra against one breast. It took a moment, and, then, the crying stopped, replaced by the soft sound of Fajra nursing. The Doctor sank down next to the woman, staring curiously at her empty gaze and the trembling hand that gently stroked Fajra’s thin wisp of black hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no other baby in the tent. Just Fajra. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor understood the woman’s blank look. </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> <span>—-</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I spy with my little eye something pink.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz sighed, turning over cautiously on her cell’s tiny cot. She could feel every stabbing spring on her aching body, each one jabbing at some new bruise or cut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The afternoon sun slipped in from the narrow window high above their heads. Inside, the cell was cold, the warmth of the pot bellied stove in the main office never reaching the prisoners. The thin blankets they’d been provided did nothing to keep the chill out and Yaz was certain she couldn’t feel her toes. Outside, the wind whistled sharply through the narrow alley behind the jail-courthouse. It sounded like screaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She and Ryan had been abandoned in the cells the night before after a long day of interrogation. No food was slipped into their cell. Instead, a few of the younger guardsmen stood outside, making a great show of eating their hot lunches, rolling their eyes and making wild exclamations like “so good!” and “oh, delicious!” Ryan had snarked that their lunch didn’t look appetizing, given that people of Earth had learned to eat hot air and there was plenty of that going around Hollum. The guardsman had not found that funny. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Frankly, Yaz had had quite enough of the guardsmen, Leader Laigh, the whole of stupid Hollum. Her body ached from the beating they’d gotten the day before, and she was certain she had a tooth loose. She wanted the Doctor and Graham, she wanted the safety and glowing, golden warmth of the TARDIS. She wanted to lie on the soft mattress of her always moving bedroom, to look at the trinkets lined up along the nightstand—the bits and bobs plucked from new, distant worlds. She wanted to be anywhere else then being struck by Abey the angry guardsmen and trying to pretend that she didn’t want to cry and tell them anything just to get them to stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had, of course, provided no answers—what little she and Ryan knew of the underground they both seemed to have silently agreed to take to their grave. Leader Laigh’s frustration only grew with each unanswered question, and Yaz was beginning to worry that the whole “taking it to their graves” business might be more likely. She felt a stab of guilt at the thought of abandoning the Doctor and Graham.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t say anything to Ryan, though. Best not to worry him any more than he already was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, Yaz!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I spy with my little eye something pink,” he repeated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it the floor?” she said, throwing an arm over her eyes, wincing at the bruises. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he replied. “C’mon, try harder.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ryan—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A buzzer blared, and the pink metal door beyond the cell swung open. Yaz stumbled to her feet, grabbing hold of Ryan’s arm as she wobbled unsteadily. They both looked up, tense. Yaz had remembered the gleeful look on Abey the guardsman’s face when he’d shoved them in the cell, as if he couldn’t wait to get back to slapping them around a bit. The bruises on her face still throbbed, and her split lip still cracked open each time she spoke, weeping new blood. As much as she could put on a brave face, and tell herself it would all be all right, she really wasn’t looking forward to any more “interrogation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She found herself sighing in relief, however, when a familiar figure stepped inside the cell. Silhouetted in pink lamplight, a key clutched in his hand, Promise surveyed them with a grim expression. “You’re being released into my custody,” he said, back ramrod straight, face serious. Outside, in the jail-courthouse office, the other guardsmen watched suspiciously. “Come along.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz looked at Ryan. Ryan shrugged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With small, mincing steps, they followed Promise out of the cell and into the cozy office of the jail-courthouse. Barefoot, Yaz could feel the warmth from the stove in the stone floor. She watched as Promise signed a few bits of paper and then waved them forward towards the front doors. “Let’s go, no dallying,” snapped Promise. Yaz huffed, hooking her arm around Ryan’s with as much dignity as she could muster as she followed Promise out. The walk to Promise’s home would be short, but without shoes she knew it would feel like a thousand miles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Outside, a blizzard was kicking up. The snow blew into their faces, sharp as needles, as Ryan and Yaz trudged behind Promise, who marched ahead, chin up and eyes forward. When she looked back, squinting into the snow, she saw a gaggle of guardsmen standing on the stone steps of the jail-courthouse, guns at the ready. Annoyed, she walked on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they climbed the hill towards Promise’s little row house, Yaz could feel the eyes of the street on her. The fine hairs at the back of her neck stood at attention as she looked pointedly forward, chin up, brave face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hep opened the door before they could knock, ushering them quickly inside. “Come in, quickly, before we draw more eyes to the house.” Yaz sighed as the heat from the pink cookstove washed over her and the comforting smell of tea and fragrant stew met her. Stiff, she sank into the kitchen chair Ryan pulled out for her with a stifled groan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silently, Hep arranged hot water, soft clothes, and a tin of medical supplies along the table, her face set in a hard, unreadable expression. Yaz wondered if she looked anything like that. If her eyes were that cold now, and her smile looked that false. Hep knelt at her side and began to gently wipe at the blood and dirt, revealing the cuts underneath. She pulled goo from jars that smelled sharp and herbaceous and smeared it liberally over the bruises. She bandaged and covered what looked deep or tender, before finally pressing a few tablets and a mug of tea into Yaz’s hands and moving on to Ryan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind them, the stairs creaked. Hope-Still and Mary peered around the corner, bundles of clothing piled high in their arms. “We gots you clean things, Miss Yaz,” Hope-Still announced. “And Mary brought you Baby.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yaz felt something soften in her chest as Mary pressed a ratty ragdoll into her lap, petting first the doll’s hair and then Yaz’s hand. Yaz felt her chin wobble. The threat of tears prickled behind her eyes. Pulling Mary into her arms, she squeezed the girl tightly, pressing her sore nose into her messy hair. “You’re so good,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hope-Still looked up at Yaz with a serious face. “Why are you all hurt?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ryan winced as Yaz looked over at him helplessly. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Oh, we were just being silly. Hurt ourselves playing, didn’t we, Ryan?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” he replied. “We was roughhousing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” said Hope-Still. “I thought the guardsmen did it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the cookstove, Promise looked away, ashamed. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's been a wild few pandemic weeks, but all's good on my front. Two-ish chapters left of this sucker. Let's see if I can complete this soon.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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